What Is Built
by CianLlyr
Summary: Delenn's autobiography. What made her who she is, and how does she remember events aboard Babylon 5?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Babylon 5 and its characters belong to J. Michael Strazcynski. The words are my own.

**Author's Notes:** This opus was my excuse to hang out in Delenn's head for awhile. Inspired by another work I've read on this site—The Book of John, by NPHW, which I cannot recommend highly enough—it imagines and fleshes out pivotal events and experiences of Delenn's early life and then moves forward into B5 series time, depicting onscreen events and gapfiller scenes from Delenn's POV. I have tried to spend more time filling in gaps than piggybacking on scenes from the series, though certain of the latter are so important to Delenn's character that I felt I had to cover them. I have quoted dialogue from the series when necessary, either directly or framed as character memory, depending on the needs of the story. Where I used "onscreen" material, I've done my best to show the subtext—what the characters are thinking and feeling at particular moments, based not only on the dialogue, but on the marvelous work of the actors. (Sometimes, the emotional moments are so clear, you can practically hear the characters' thoughts—hats off to the entire cast for a terrific job.)

Chennan of Valeria, my take on Delenn's mother from "Choices and Challenges", turns up in this story as well. "What Is Built" assumes that "Choices and Challenges" takes place; it also assumes the occurrence of the Earth-Minbari War as depicted in the novel IN THE BEGINNING (a work to which Delenn makes oblique reference as if it exists in her fictional universe as well).

Reviews are welcome. And thanks to all in advance for reading.

**Summary:** Delenn's autobiography. What made her who she is, and how does she remember her years on Babylon Five? Covers events up through early Season Four, approximately through "Falling Toward Apotheosis".

**Rating:** T

From _What Is Built, Endures_: an autobiography of Delenn _ys _Mir of Minbar Prologue

Humans have a saying that history is written by the victors. Meaning that, no matter how many sides to a story may exist, one side will always dominate. As if the tangled realities of sentient existence can be reduced to a simple narrative—thus-and-so means thus-and-so, always and only, for all time to come. Until the "victors" change, and then they rewrite the story to suit their purposes. And everyone comes to believe the new history, until the next time power shifts and the story changes. And on and on it goes.

The one thing rarely served in this process is truth. Truth is messy. Complicated. Inconvenient. Yet in the end, only truth will save us from repeating the errors of our pasts, the very errors we no longer know of because we have come to believe the legends. The received history. The simple story.

I come of a story-telling people. We are good at it, and proud of it. Like the ancient Celtic tribes of Earth, we came late to written language; for centuries we knew ourselves through story and song, passed down through memory in every clan and added to in each generation. Until there grew too much for any mind to hold, even the keen and disciplined minds of our greatest bards and sages. We began to write things down then, though we kept faith with our tradition of memory. And one thing about that tradition—we remembered everything. Not only our triumphs, but our failures. Not only our strengths, but our weaknesses. The ways in which we learned and achieved, and the ways in which we fell short. That which made us exceptional, and that which made us ordinary. Sometimes even contemptible, when we lived down to the worst in ourselves. Our aim was honesty—and though we have surely fallen short of that more than once, there is worth in the trying. For if we are, as we believe, a facet of the Universe trying to figure itself out… then what point is there in seeing ourselves as other than we are?

I am near the end, now, of a long life. Too long in many ways. All those I love are dead, save for a dozen or so great-grandchildren whose presence still cheers me and whose achievements I savor. And a few aides and Rangers in my household, who have grown to be kindred of my heart. But those I knew and loved in earlier days… they are all gone now. Even Mayan, who went to the sea these three summers past. And David, fifteen winters gone on a final mission with the Anla'shok, for which he was too old—yet he went anyway, courageous to the last. Susan, Michael, Stephen. Vir, G'Kar, Lennier. Lyta, dead long ago in the Telepath War. Sinclair, gone a thousand years back in my own people's history. Londo. Yes, even he I count among my loved ones, in spite of everything. And the one I loved most—

It is so hard to write of him. Of John. My eyes blur and my hands shake, and my voice trembles so much that even to speak for a transcriber, let alone put words to paper, is beyond me. He has been away these eighty years by human reckoning, and I have missed him fiercely every single hour of them. So much so, that at first all I wanted was to follow him into death. I had promised him I would not, but I nearly did anyway. Susan saved me then. Susan and Stephen and Michael, and Vir, and Mayan—and David when he reached home after the end of that first Ranger mission he had so reluctantly embarked on, knowing his father would die before it ended. They all set aside their grief for mine, reminded me that I had duties. Responsibilities. Promises to keep, so that what John and I and so many others had built would survive and prosper. No matter how wounded my heart, I could not break that trust. He knew that, damn him. Bless him. For twenty years, both—the source of my joy and my pain. But the joy was far greater. A gift worth the price, were I to pay it a thousand times over.

It is for him that I write this account. This… autobiography. He wrote one himself, a few years before his passing—determined that at least one honest accounting of who he was and what he did, and why, should exist to be found. I now take a leaf from his book, so to speak. Because already they are changing the story about him. Or trying to. I have heard their words—so much ignorant air. _Pathological_, one of them called him. _Cold and ruthless_, said another. I will grant her the ruthlessness—though it was rare, and only when more lives would have been lost without it. And always, always it cost him. Far more than the ignorant jabberers will ever know. But cold? Pathological—a byword for illness of mind? Power-hungry, a megalomaniac? None of those things, ever. The truth of his life shows this for any with eyes to see it.

And yet, there are those who claim otherwise. They take the truth of who he was and twist it to fit a pre-determined shape so that they may then say _see, see, the story is not what you thought. It is_ this _story instead—one that only we were wise enough to piece together, but you who accept our version may hope to be just as wise. Wiser than your neighbors, who still believe the fairy tale._ And if they will do this to him, who was one of their own—a human, an undisputed hero who saved his world from darkness and brought us all into the light—then what, I wonder, will they say of me? I was, after all, once an enemy of their race. More than a century gone now, in a moment of madness born from a death that was itself born of a terrible misunderstanding—but still, an enemy for that moment. Will they resurrect that, tarnish my motives with it? Call me ruthless, pathological—make of me an evil enchantress who plotted the downfall of humanity in the guise of aiding it? Turn my atonement, even my love, into no more than a long drawn-out act of vengeance?

I will not let them. But simply telling a better story will not serve. My story must be truer… not a legend, but as it was. Good and bad, right and wrong and in-between, messy and complicated and not at all convenient. A story with its nuances intact. A Minbari kind of story. My people understand nuances. We live in them. At many times in our past, especially before Valen, they were all that kept us from killing each other.

So, then. To my autobiography, though to talk so much of myself strikes me as unseemly. An act of ego, a putting-forward of Delenn _ys_ Mir that is far beyond what I deserve. Yet it is the best way I know to tell the truth—of Babylon Five, of John Sheridan my beloved, and of all those who were with us in the Shadow War and beyond. All those who built the Alliance, their legacy to the ignorant jabberers who do not value it as they should. My legacy, too. And the best way to understand it is to understand those who built it—myself among them.

And so I begin with a question. Who is Delenn _ys_ Mir of Minbar?

Who, indeed.

Part 1—Acquainted with Grief

Bright sun on the snow. A stand of _hala_ bushes furred with thin red leaves, their branches curled inward against the winter chill. They looked like the clenched fists of something impossibly old, and had a sharp, spicy smell that drew me toward them. A wild gokk burst through them and dashed away across the snow. Small, brown and fluffy against the frozen white. And moving impossibly fast—but that didn't stop me from trying to catch up with it. The snow-crust was hardened and thick, easy for a small girl to run on. I had wanted to run for so long, for every hour of the past nine days' blizzard. And I wanted the gokk. I would keep it as a pet, feed it tubers and ice-berries and the sweet green _kenar_ leaves that to me always tasted of spring. All I had to do was be quick enough to grab it.

My mother called from behind me, but I paid her no heed. I did not hear the sudden terror in her voice, or the thunder from above that should not have come from a clear sky on a day far too cold for rain. I had not yet lived three full cycles of seasons, though my third naming-day would fall soon, in the Soft Winds Moon that marked spring's slow beginning. I was too young to know danger, still less to understand what would come of that danger's being averted. I only knew I wanted a gokk to play with. And I wanted to run, which I could not do indoors. So I ran after the gokk.

My mother called again. The gokk had vanished behind a snowbank, and this time I heard her more clearly. She sounded stretched, thin. Afraid. I had never heard her sound afraid before.

I turned to look back at her and saw an impossible sight. A boulder, nearly five times my size. Hanging in the air above me, as if caught there by invisible hands.

I did not connect this amazing sight with my mother. Not then. I did not even fully grasp that the boulder, if it had fallen, would have crushed me. I knew only that Mother wanted me, and I must go to her. Which I did, still innocent of the reason why.

As I reached her, the boulder finished falling. Snow spattered our cloaks where we stood, several lengths away. Mother picked me up. She was trembling hard enough to rattle my teeth. I threw my arms around her neck, frightened now and needing comfort. She murmured in my ear: "_Savaye, mai'le_"—all is well, little heart—and we went inside.

The rest of that afternoon passed normally enough. Mother made us tea and fruit, and seemed to recover her strength. She was very quiet, buried in her own thoughts. I felt a wall around her, invisible but there. I did not think she was angry with me. It was unlike her, this wall, but not worrisome. Not then.

She gave me paper and ink and thin brushes, and I began to draw. I liked to draw, to cover the blank white sheets with curves and whorls and bright splashes of color. I would experiment with different colors and lines, to see which ones fit together and which didn't. And which ones fit in unexpected ways, even when it seemed they shouldn't. On most days, those were the ones I liked best. On this day, the white sheets reminded me of snow. I drew picture after picture of the gokk, the bushes, myself. My mother. The boulder, suspended in the bright air. Looking back, it is clear I knew something even then. But I was not old enough to tell myself what it was, in any way that would have made sense.

My father came home at twilight, the scroll he was working on under his arm and a pleased look on his face. He set the scroll down and lifted me up as soon as he came through our door, not even bothering to take off his cloak first. Cold air radiated from it, as if it were breathing winter at me. It tickled, and I shrieked with laughter as he swept me off my feet. Do you see how young I was, that decorum was not yet expected of me? Or of him, with me. He swung me up, swooped me around like a bird in flight, rubbed our noses together, pressed my forehead to his. "How is my little one? What have you been busy with today, _mai'le_?"

"Pictures," I said, as he set me back on my feet. "I made pictures. Lots and lots."

He regarded me with grave respect. I did not notice the glimmer of humor beneath. "I should like to see them."

"After supper," I said, and pulled him toward our kitchen. There was a good smell of stew from it, root vegetables and dumplings with winter herbs and dried ice-berries, and I was more concerned with food than with showing off my afternoon's labors.

We ate, and then I showed him my best picture: the gokk running out of the deep red bushes, a bright round sun huge and golden overhead. My father admired it profusely, and we spent some time with a fresh sheet of paper while he taught me how to draw shadows on the snow. My mother had gone to meditate, which was somewhat unusual this early; normally, she would talk with my father about his day's work, or closet herself in her study with the new drama she was working on. But she had said nothing of any trouble in her heart—had in fact gotten through the evening with perfect composure. That it was brittle as ice escaped my notice, and my father's as well. I think now he suspected what was coming and chose to ignore it as studiously as my mother did, for much the same reasons. But I did not ask him while he lived, and I shall never know.

Then it was time for sleeping. I did not disturb my mother, who was deep in meditation; I knew she would come with a kiss for me when she was ready, no matter how late the hour. Father came in and told me a story, a particularly absurd one involving Merann the Curious, a talking gokk and three Vorlons whose ship had crash-landed on the islands of Rizala, a colony world known for its warm oceans and exotic wildlife. Birds of every color, Father said, and took great joy in describing them. Especially the large one Merann was riding on, that kept cracking jokes in the hope she would laugh too hard and fall off. I remember us giggling together, the story was so silly—and I remember the sound that came next. An animal howl, like the mountain cats that prowled the slopes high above Tuzanor. They came down, sometimes, near the city's edge when the winter cold was deepest, crying with hunger that drew their skin against their bones. Only this howl did not come from the slopes outside, and it was not hunger. It came from the meditation room, and it was a kind of pain I had no knowledge of.

It was my mother, and it was a cry of despair.

**ooOoo**

My father fell silent at the sound. His face went—I did not know the word then, but I do now—bloodless. A phrase crossed my mind, from a tale he had often told me of Valen and the Nine: _They knew their doom was upon them, and so they went out to face it._ It was an odd thought to have. But I knew he was going to face something in answering that cry. And it frightened me.

He gripped my shoulders, gently but firmly. "Stay here, _mai'le_. I will come back." And then he left my room.

I huddled in my blankets. The downward-pointing end of my pillow poked me high in the back. I shifted around, but couldn't get comfortable. I heard my father's voice, and my mother's. Then my mother's voice alone, for a long time.

My stuffed gokk, Chazen, was no help at all. No matter how tightly I held her, she could not banish my fears. I buried my nose in her plush fur, which was already wearing thin in spots. The familiar scent and texture did nothing to ease me. I felt my breath come fast, anxious. Father had said to stay here. He had said he would come back. But it was so long, and he had not come. I did not hear his footsteps in the hallway, or any movement at all. Or, I realized abruptly, any voices. When had my mother stopped talking, and why did my father not speak?

Suddenly I was terrified. They had vanished, I thought, been swallowed up by the Winter Lord who rode the blizzard winds and sometimes ate naughty children. My parents were gone, and I was alone. Only that could explain the awful silence.

I threw off my blankets and got up, Chazen clutched to my chest as I ran from the room. My footsteps echoed as I pattered down the hall. If the Winter Lord were still here, I would confront him. I would demand my parents back. He could not have them. I needed them. I thought of the boulder, of myself chasing the wild gokk and not heeding my mother's voice. It was my fault they were gone. If I had to, I would tell the Winter Lord to take me in their place.

The door to my parents' sleeping-room was half open. I ran to it and stopped. They were inside, both of them. Perfectly safe, no Winter Lord anywhere, nor any snow or ice that might have been his footprints. Sitting on the low end of their bed, my mother curled against my father, his cheek resting on her head.

The sight should have reassured me. It did not. Because I saw a look on my mother's face that I had never seen before. An emptiness, as if some part of her had been stolen away and could never come back.

What I felt then, I can scarcely describe. I had once dreamed I was lost in the mountains, wandering in the snows until hunger hollowed out my stomach and tears froze on my cheeks. The sight of my mother's face brought those dream-feelings back, sudden and stark. I was lost and alone, and nothing would ever be right again. And she felt the same way, I realized. Mother was lost too, and Father couldn't help her find her way home. No one could.

Yet it seemed to me I had to try.

"_Oma'mai_," I said. I did not know I was going to speak, didn't know I _could_ speak until I heard my own voice in that silent room. "What is wrong?"

They both started, clearly unaware of my presence until then. Mother looked at me, and the blankness in her face gave way to raw anguish. I flinched at it and wanted desperately to comfort her, both at the same time. She held out a hand, and I ran to her. Buried myself in her silk house-robe, breathed in the scent of her, felt the warmth of her body next to mine. Another warmth came then—my father's strong arms enfolding us both. Almost too tightly, as if he feared letting go.

"Have I been bad?" I whispered against my mother's ribcage. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

She began to cry then. My own body shook with her sobbing. She was shaking her head, but could not answer me. So my father did. "No, _mai'le_," he said, his own voice none too steady. "You are a good girl. Our little heart that we love so much. You haven't done anything wrong."

"Then why is Mother crying?" We spoke in whispers, as if anything louder might shatter the air around us like glass.

"Because…" He faltered. "Because she must leave us. For a very special reason that cannot be set aside." He hugged us both closer as he went on. "Not right away, though. Not until the end of spring, at least. Maybe even summer."

In the chill of loss that surrounded me, I found one ember of warmth. My mother would be here for my naming-day. I clung to that, made of it a hearth-fire that helped hold off cold reality. Time enough for reality to sink in later, when my mother made her final farewells and went away with the Sisters of Valeria.

**ooOoo**

I cannot write about that long, slow spring, our last months together as a family. I know there were glad times in them; I cannot believe I spent all four spring moons and the first moon of summer sunk in misery. Yet even after all these years, even after Chenann of Valeria came to Babylon Five and we found each other again, so painful was the parting that it colors every happy memory from those days.

Sometimes, that happens with my memories of John. I try not to let it, because if I do, I will lose them. And then I will truly lose him—forever and ever, as the humans say. Still, it can be hard. It was hard for David too, especially in the first few cycles after John's passing. He knew how vital the mission was that took him from home when he most wanted to be there; we had discussed it, all three of us, over and over until we were sick of the subject. He knew also how vital it was that he be the one to go—and once the decision was made, he spent three whole days with his father, doing everything they could manage that they had always wanted to do together. Including a day's camping trip halfway up Grandmother Mountain, which I never understood their wanting to do, but which they thoroughly enjoyed despite the mess and discomfort. Or perhaps because of it. I put it down to their human traits and was glad for them, even though it meant a night alone for me when I did not have many nights with John left. Yet still, David blamed himself for not being here… after. Not for a whole Earth month, in his mind pushing the _White Star_ all the way.

That there were others, friends dear as family, who pulled me back from the brink mattered little to his sense of guilt. He should have been here, he believed, from the very first word of parting. He was like me in that, my David. And like his father. Prone to take responsibility where it was not ours, because somebody had to. And because being responsible for something gives you a measure of control over it. If you are not responsible, then you are helpless. As I was, back when I was three cycles old and my mother went away.

I remember being sad for a long time afterward. Sometimes, I think I would have spent my entire childhood bowed under the weight of loss, if it had not been for one person. Not my father, though he took good care of me and made sure I knew nothing could take him from my side. But he had lost my mother too, and often it was more than he could bear. I saw him cry sometimes, when I crept out of bed late at night to find him, or when he thought I was too absorbed in play to notice. No, the other I speak of was a child. A little girl like me, some months the younger, who came to us for fostering the spring I turned four. A girl of the Wanderers, whose mother was a cousin of my father's, which gave her clan-right among the Miri.

A little girl named Mayan.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2—Sister of the Heart

I did not know what to make of Mayan when she first came to us. It was high summer then, the Thousand Flowers Moon, almost five months after my fourth naming day. My mother had been gone a full cycle of seasons, and I was no nearer getting over it. Does one ever truly get over a loss like that? I don't think so. One may get beyond it, come to terms with it, learn to go on in spite of it… but get over it? Not really. Not if one has any heart.

My heart then was… guarded. That is the nearest word to describe it. I felt hidden away inside myself, like one of the shelled creatures that lived by the Inland Sea. Father took me there for awhile, that first summer after Mother went to the Sisterhood. They sent her to a chapter house far away, in Yedor. When we went to the seashore, Father told me the change of scenery might do us good. We spent many days walking together in silence, my hand in his. It was hard to make myself eat, even when Father tried to tempt me with fresh _nek'har_ fruit and the little honey pastries I loved. And I passed far too much time watching the crawlers, the tiny shelled animals that lived in the shallow tide pools by the seashore.

The rainbow ones were my favorite—I have never lost my love of bright colors—and I spent hours watching their slow movements from one side of the pool to another. A glistening knob would poke out from beneath the shell, shape itself into a skinny oval foot, and grip the wet sand like toes over a branch. Then the foot would pull itself short and fat, and the rest of the creature would follow. They moved by such small distances, no wider than my littlest fingertip, yet they never stopped until they reached the other side. There they would feed on the fringed purple seaweed that grew on the southern rim. They fascinated me. They were so persistent, and so protected. Nothing could get through their hard shells to harm them, or turn them away from what they strove for. No matter what, they just kept going.

I turned one over once, to see what it would do. It sucked its gleaming foot deep into its shell and did not come out. I feared I had killed it, a thought I could not bear. So I turned it back upright, and within three heartbeats its foot was back out and it was crawling along as if nothing had happened. This sight made me happier than anything had in days. It seemed… confirmation of something, though I could not have said what.

At any rate, I had not coped well with my mother's absence, and my father was worried about me. So were many others in my clan. Callenn, who was my uncle—he was not yet Elder of Mir—voiced his opinion that I had been indulged long enough, and that any child still insensible of the great honor my mother had been offered needed lessons in proper Minbari thinking. He suggested I be fostered for a time, away from my still-grieving father, who was clearly too affected by his own loss to do right by me. This conversation marked the first of only three times during my childhood that I recall my gentle father raising his voice. The subject was not broached again.

Still, the idea of fostering must have stuck in my father's mind. For it was through him, I later learned, that Mayan came to live with the family Mir. With my father and I specifically, in our house near the western edge of the clanhold. He knew I was lonely and in need of a friend—and Mayan was in need of a family, her own immediate kin having been lost to a shipboard accident in deep space. I did not know this then, of course. I found it out later. What I knew when she came was that she was a stranger, an interloper. A little younger than I, delicate, subdued. No color in her anywhere, except for her light brown eyes.

She scarcely lifted them, or spoke a word, for her first nine days with us. I was polite to her, but wary. I felt her presence as a gentle pull on my heart, as if merely by being near me, she demanded my attention. I did not want to give it. I wanted to stay in my shell. It was safe there. Nothing could touch me. Fortunately, the Universe knew better than I did.

She was a restless sleeper, Mayan. I slept none too well myself in those days, and I could hear every rustle and creak as she moved under her blankets. We shared a room, as Minbari children often did. Once we reached school age, we would be old enough to sleep in the Children's Hall when we wished, in the central building of the clan compound. But we were too young yet. In our house there was only my father, and each other.

Our beds were close together, and the sounds of Mayan's wakefulness were hard to ignore. Only her restless body made noise in the dark; she never spoke, or murmured, or sighed. Until the night when, in a little space of silence, I heard her crying. Soft, taut sobs, as if she were trying to swallow them whole.

I did not think. I only moved. I did not wonder why it seemed necessary to hold my gokk Chazen so close to my cheek as I climbed into Mayan's bed. I curled around her back, Chazen's plump body squashed between us.

I felt an easing in her, faint but definite. She took a shuddering breath, sniffled, moved her hand to wipe her nose. "I miss my mother," she whispered.

I could barely answer through the tightness in my throat. "So do I."

"And my father." A fresh sob welled up; I felt it against my chest. "They died. They'll never come back."

I did not know what to say to this. Every child knew the dead were reborn, and that all would meet again one day in the place where no shadows fall. Yet in Mayan's voice, I heard for the first time the finality of death. Our loved ones may be reborn, but not in the lifetime where we still are. Gone from us for awhile is still gone, perhaps for years. Sometimes more years than a heart can bear. That sadness was in Mayan, and I sensed dimly that it was greater than my own.

So I offered her the only comfort I could. "You can share mine."

She sniffled again and was silent, as if thinking it over. "Will he be my father forever?"

"Forever," I said.

She turned over to face me. In the dim light from the two moons, I could see her eyes were wet, her face solemn. "Will you be my sister?"

"Yes." To my surprise, I meant it.

"Promise," she said.

"I promise." After a moment, I pushed my stuffed gokk into her hands. "Here. You can share Chazen, too."

Her eyes widened. She tucked Chazen under her chin and shifted a little toward me, so that our foreheads touched. Then her eyes closed.

We fell asleep like that—two little girls, forever bound in heart by the shared knowledge of loss.

Part 3—Visions and Dreams

Seasons passed, and I grew old enough for school. I loved my teachers at the temple in Tuzanor, loved walking down the mountainside with my father every day to the school door just one street over from Temple Square. I made friends, though none as dear as Mayan, who joined me there a season after. Yet there was one incident from this time, just before I started my schooling, that would shape my life in ways I would not begin to understand until much, much later.

It was the height of Minbar's brief summer, the last day of the Thousand Flowers Moon. That day and the next two, which began the Moon of Shining Air, had by long tradition been summer Festival time. By equally long tradition, those children of the Miri who turned eight before the Festival were permitted to travel with their parents into Tuzanor to join in the festivities. And such festivities there were! Musicians on every street corner, jugglers and magicians, sellers of toys and food and silk ribbons and pottery and every other thing one could dream of, that might be made or grown. And the singers in Temple Square—an ever-changing crowd of people, never less than three times three, who sang ballads and _tee'la_ and ritual chorales that had been ancient in Valen's time. Brother Theo would have called them masses and enjoyed them to the hilt. To us, they were the songs of our souls, and there was never a moment from sun-up on the first day through sundown on the third that they did not echo through the bright, warm air. Our songs created the world, and us, anew.

My mother was there, one of two occasions in my childhood when she was permitted to be with us. Formally, she was no longer my mother; our kinship ties had been sundered in the _kir'lat _ritual, freeing her of obligation to any but the Sisterhood so that her gifts might equally serve all Minbari. But tradition also recognized that the bonds of love that come with blood are not so easily severed—and certain milestones in a child's life must be marked for the good of the child. The start of schooling was one of these. So she came to us that Festival day, to accompany my father and me on our trip into Tuzanor.

I was wild with excitement—for the journey, for the Festival, for my mother's presence. I could barely bring myself to dress properly and _walk_ down the stairs, so impatient was I to see her. I barely had time for Mayan, who was moping because she could not come with us. The flash of a red-feathered _sana_ bird past our window, a symbol of luck, seemed to promise me the Universe that day. The morning had been so brimful of good fortune, it seemed I might wish for anything, and it would fall into my hands.

I scarcely dared tell myself what I truly wished for. That somehow, the last four and half cycles had all been a mistake, that my mother had come back to us. To stay.

Somehow, I made it down the stairs. Somehow, I made it through the unexpected strangeness of my mother's presence at the breakfast table. I did not want it to be strange, and the feeling disturbed me. But I ignored it as best I could, and after breakfast I climbed into her lap and demanded a song, as if I were three naming-days old again, and she sang to me, and everything was all right. Mayan was there too, big-eyed with wonder as she listened, and just for a moment I felt jealous. _She cannot share my mother_, I thought. _Not yet_. And then it was time to go into the city.

There were a thousand sights and sounds to claim my attention. A thousand smells, too. Roasting nuts and pastries baking, ripe fruit and fragrant tea. A million conversations as throngs of people passed by, in bright silk robes of every color I knew. Tents by the hundreds, set up in the vast central parkland, where vendors were shaded from the warm summer sun as they hawked their wares. The bright pennons that marked each vendor's clan and caste affiliations snapped in the breeze. And over it all came the sound of singing, drifting on the wind from Temple Square.

We walked together, my parents and I, for what felt like a very long time. Once, we stopped for tea and _chirnoi_, small squares of fried dough topped with nuts and burnt sugar. I had never tasted anything like them, a crackling brown sweetness that dissolved on the tongue. My father bought a small bag of them, to take back and share with Mayan, and then we were on our way again.

We had been walking for perhaps five minutes when I spied a tent full of small animals—songbirds in reed cages, long-tailed tree-jumpers, a snake in a glass bowl. Next to it was a music stall. My father led us toward it. For a little while, I was content to look at the instruments that hung on the cloth walls or stood on small tables. I recognized single- and doubleharps, nine-stringed _rikallani_ like the one my father played, flutes artfully displayed atop their jewel-hued silk carrying bags. But I couldn't play anything, and after a time I grew bored. A bird trilled from the animal tent next door. Slowly, I wandered toward the sound.

My father cautioned me to stay close—he and my mother were deep in conversation with the harpmaker—and so I stopped at the edge of the animal tent and contented myself with looking inside. One of the songbirds was bright blue from head to tail; another, its feathers a dull sandy brown, sang more sweetly than the rest. The snake was curled around a miniature tree branch in its bowl, like some strange piece of fruit.

Then, on the far side of the tent, I saw a flash of black fur. The flash became a ball, with a small round head and flat ears. A gokk. A tame one. It looked at me and chittered.

I looked around. My father was still talking with the harpmaker, while my mother tuned a small singleharp. It would be rude to interrupt them. I looked back at the gokk and saw it leaping up and down, turning somersaults as it tried to catch its own stubby tail. I couldn't resist. I went closer for a better look.

The gokk sat on a wooden table in the middle of the street. It wore a leather harness, dyed bright red for Festival. Its owner, a long-limbed young man with black eyes and a lively face, was holding kenar leaves just out of its reach to make it jump. Each time it flipped in the air, he fed it a leaf, all the while keeping up a stream of praise. "That's my Sho-sa, that's my pretty girl. The cleverest gokk in Tuzanor, that's what you are. Up, up—come on, that's it! Good girl, clever girl. Try again…"

Others began to gather round, drawn by the gokk's antics. Seeing them, the youth lifted a flute that dangled from a leather thong around his neck. He put the flute to his lips. The gokk sat back on its haunches and drew itself up as long and thin as it could. Then it began to dance.

A large man in dark green stepped in front of me. I tried to see around him, but other people were standing too close. Then someone else shifted position, and I slipped through the gap to the front of the crowd. I knew I should go back to the music tent soon; my parents would be looking for me. But the gokk was still dancing, and I didn't want to miss any of it. Mayan had made me promise to tell her everything I saw; surely a dancing gokk counted. No, I decided, I could not leave until the dance was over.

Finally, with a double somersault and a bow just as if it were a person, the gokk ended its performance. Coins rained into the basket that sat on one end of the table. Father had given me some, the first I had ever possessed. I reached into my pocket for one and nearly fell down when someone knocked against me. The crowd was leaving, and carrying me with it.

My startled cry was drowned out by the surrounding chatter. No one noticed a small girl, or if they did, they assumed my parents were close by. I could not get out of the throng; I could only trot along with them and hope no one knocked me down. By the time I saw a clear space and slipped through it, the mass of people had carried me nearly a whole street away. I ducked under a silk-clad arm toward a momentary emptiness, caught my breath, and looked around for the music stall. There had been a blue pennon flying from it, with a spiral design in gold. I looked for it amid the riot of colored tents and pennons all around. After a moment, I saw it—deep blue, like the memory-candles we lit in temple, downhill and off to one side. I ran toward it, dodging people all the way.

As I drew closer, I smelled bread baking. I did not recall a baker's near the music stall. I could see the tent with the blue pennon more clearly now; it was full of ribbons and swathes of silk. I stopped and glanced around. Nothing looked familiar. I was lost.

Sudden fear held me rigid. Then I heard harpstrings. The music tent couldn't be too far away. I would find it if I looked hard enough. Or my parents would find me. Surely they would never let me stay lost.

With that thought to comfort me, I set off toward the sound of the harp.

I don't know how much later it was when my faith began to falter. I felt as if I had been walking for days. My feet were sore, my legs ached, and I had no idea where I was. All the sights and sounds that I had found so beguiling now bewildered me. I almost wished I had stayed home with Mayan, building towers by the fireside and listening to the old ones tell stories. But I told myself not to be afraid. Fear made it hard to think. I needed to think if I wanted to find my parents. Then we could all go home, where everything was safe and familiar.

I didn't like the crowds and the noise anymore. I turned away from them down a side street, then another. Here, there were no tents and no throngs—only the quiet, shuttered fronts of empty houses. All the people in them had gone to the Festival bazaar, or to Temple Square, or to the open land at the southern end of Tuzanor to watch the dancing and mock fights.

Somewhere in my wanderings, I had gotten a stone in my shoe. I hobbled to the side of the street, took my shoe off, dug the stone out and threw it from me as hard as I could. There was a red mark on my heel where the shoe had been rubbing; it would hurt when I put the shoe back on. I sat still for awhile, legs aching, trying not to cry.

It had grown darker, I realized suddenly. Clouds had drifted in, and now there was no sunlight left. A cold gust ruffled my tunic. I smelled rain, along with the sharp, tingly scent that meant a storm was coming.

I hated storms. They frightened me with their noise and fury. The thought of being alone in one made tears well up, but I blinked them back. I was eight summers old now, old enough to be brave and strong. I got up and started walking down the street. Thunder muttered overhead. I walked faster. The wind blew sharper, colder. I swallowed hard and kept walking. I would not cry. I would keep walking down this street, and then I would turn the corner and go back toward the bazaar, and I would find my parents very soon—

Air-shaking thunder broke overhead. I screamed and ran. Panic gave me new strength; I darted blindly through the streets, not knowing or caring where I was going. Sheets of water dropped from the leaden sky, drenching me. Another loud thunderclap made me halt in sheer terror. Shivering with cold and fear, I looked wildly around for refuge, and saw an old temple a little distance away. I limped toward it. Pulling open the heavy door took almost all my strength, but I managed it and slipped inside.

It was dark in the temple, but a little warmer and blessedly dry. The stone walls and ceiling muffled the sounds of the storm, making them almost bearable. I stumbled toward the sanctuary in the center. I could lie down on the cushions there and rest until the storm ended. I would be safe here. Then, if my parents had not come, I would go back out and look for them.

The white silk curtains that marked off the sanctuary gleamed in the dimness. Just outside them, I saw a covered basket and a crystal flagon. Wayfarers' gifts; offerings of food and water for weary travelers who might happen upon this place. The sight of them reminded me how hungry and thirsty I was. I murmured the prayer of thanks to Valen for the blessing of kindness, then lifted the flagon and took a long drink. In the basket, I found dried fruit and a flat round of journey-bread. I carried some of each down the two steps into the triangle-shaped well where people came to pray, and sank down on the nearest soft cushion.

As I ate the bread and fruit, I looked around the sanctuary. Like the smaller one at our clanhold, the chamber was carved from crystal. Father had told me all sanctuaries were made so, though not all were hollowed out from one crystal alone, as this one was. There were only so many of the giant crystalline growths on our world, and many temples made do with piecing several large crystals together. Ours used three, a number of great significance. On bright days, sunlight struck patterns of colored light from their facets that could pierce the heart with their beauty. I never tired of watching that dance of color; the light seemed to whisper secrets that only my deepest inner self understood.

That self was the brave one, I thought as I sat in the old temple in the storm. The one that wouldn't run crying from thunder and get more lost than ever. I swallowed the last piece of fruit over a sudden lump in my throat.

There were no dancing colors to cheer me here; the weak light from the stormy sky filled the sanctuary with strange shadows. I could barely see the statues of Valen and Valeria, one on either side of the sacred flame that was never put out. That fire, the heart-fire of the Universe, burned blue-white in a crystal lantern in every Minbari temple and home. The only other light in the sanctuary came from the banks of memory-candles that lined the far wall. Flickering golden lights above deep blue glass, like small stars in the dimness. People lit those candles for the dead, or to give thanks for blessings, or to mark a special memory. Father lit one on the day of his marriage to my mother, the day Mayan had come to us, and on my own naming-day, in every cycle.

I looked down, and realized for the first time that I had lost my shoe. I must have dropped it when the thunder frightened me. Softly, I began to cry. I was frightened and cold and alone, and so tired I could barely sit upright. And I had disobeyed my father. He had not exactly said not to leave the music tent, but I knew he had meant I should stay within his sight. Now I might never see him again. Or Mayan, either. Which meant I would break my promise to her, to tell her everything I had seen in Tuzanor. Disobedient, a breaker of promises—what would my mother think of me? She would be so ashamed, she would never stay with us. Not even if she could. Or ever want to see me any more. Lost in misery, I lay down on the cushions and let them soak up my tears until exhaustion claimed me.

I woke to the same dark and cold, my cheeks damp and my head aching. I did not at first notice the slow creeping of light and warmth through the crystal chamber. As the light grew brighter, I sat up. The statue of Valen was glowing white-gold. Then Valen was there, standing before me. He was made all of light, and he towered over me. The wonder of it made me forget to breathe. He looked down at me with kindness in his eyes—the way my father looked at me when I hurt myself and went to him for comfort.

"I will not allow harm to come to my little ones here, in my great House," he said. His voice was like music; it rippled through me, chasing out the shadows of fear and pain and shame. He raised one glowing hand and touched my forehead. The golden light flared, then faded. As it vanished, I heard the creaking of the heavy temple door. A voice called my name. Two voices. Father. Mother.

I jumped up and ran through the curtain, straight into my father's arms. He lifted me and hugged me breathless, then set me down. My mother knelt and held out her arms. I fell into them. She was soft and warm and smelled of moonflowers. We stood close together, holding each other without words. The sounds of the storm had ceased.

I pulled away just enough to look up at my father. "I saw Valen, _Ava'mai_. He was here. He spoke to me. He was all golden, like sunlight, and he smiled at me!"

He touched my cheek. "A pretty dream. Did it keep the shadows away?"

"It wasn't a dream. I was so scared and sad, I was crying, and then it got light, and the statue was glowing, and he was there." I pointed toward the tumbled cushions where I had been sitting, visible through the half-open curtain. "Right there. And he smiled at me, and I knew everything would be all right. And then you came." I stared at them both in dawning wonder. "He told you where to find me. He showed you."

They exchanged a glance I couldn't interpret. "Perhaps," Mother said quietly. "In his own way." Then, in a more normal tone: "Delenn, where is your shoe?"

**ooOoo**

I was wakeful that night, unable to resolve the contradictions of the day. Mayan slept blissfully, holding Chazen, and I envied her. I remembered the _sana_ bird I had seen in the morning, herald of luck, and I wondered: was I lucky today, or not? I had seen a vision—a vision of Valen, the kind of thing only very wise people usually saw. But I was not wise. I was a child. How should such a gift have come to me? It would not have happened, I thought, if I had not run into the old temple. And I would not have run there if I had not been so tired and cold and lost and afraid. Somehow, the one went with the other. The gift and the gladness with the sorrow and pain, woven together like the notes of a song. _Why_, I wondered, but I had no answer then.

The door to my room slid back, and in the dim light from the crystal sconces I saw my mother come in. She wore dark traveling clothes and carried a leather satchel in the crook of one arm. She halted and looked surprised as I sat up, then knelt by my bedside. Her gentle smile did not reach her eyes. She set the satchel down and laid her hand against my cheek. And I knew.

"You're going away again," I said.

Her voice was a bare whisper. "Yes."

"But I want you to stay."

"I can't." She glanced down, then back up at me. Her voice trembled slightly as she continued. "I am not your mother anymore, Delenn. I belong to the Sisters now."

_I hate them_, I thought, and just managed not to say it. To speak such a thing aloud would be unforgivable. I threw myself down on the bed and hid my face against my pillow. Was this punishment for my disobedience? Or another hard thing, like the storm, that would somehow bring good in its wake? At that moment, though, I could not see how. It hurt, and that was all.

I felt her hand stroking my back. "I brought you something," she said. "A present for Festival. Would you like to see?"

I could hear in her voice that she wanted me to. Part of me didn't want to look at her; another part never wished to look away. After several seconds, I rolled over. She opened the satchel and lifted out a singleharp, just the right size for a child's hands.

I sat up and reached for it. The wood frame felt smooth under my fingertips. I plucked one string, and a single clear note rang through the room.

I stilled it before it could wake Mayan. "I don't know how to play."

She looked at me a moment, then held out her hand. "Come. I will teach you your first song before I go."

Cradling the harp, I let her lead me out and down the hall.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 4—And So It Begins

Three cycles passed, in a life that seemed uneventful. School, friends, home—these were my world, and they did not vary. Word reached us of war between the Dilgar and several planets from the League of Non-Aligned Worlds—a war into which a new race, called humans, had abruptly thrust themselves. We knew nothing of humans, and cared less. The war was mercifully distant from the Minbari Federation, and such was our history with the Dilgar that we were content to stay out of the conflict. We marveled at the humans' haplessness, wished them well in spite of it, and turned our attention to other matters.

My father was appointed scholar-in-residence at the temple library in Tuzanor, and devoted much of his time to essays on the life and prophecies of Valen. I was little interested at first; but as I grew older and he spoke more of his work, I felt drawn to the subject almost in spite of myself. We would not even begin to study the prophecies at school for another full cycle at least; yet Valen himself came to fascinate me. Where had he come from, this Minbari not born of Minbari? What did that even mean? And why had he arrived just in time to turn the tide in the last great Shadow War? Was he compelled to fight, or had he chosen to?

There were other questions too, that my father tried to answer. Most significant among them was whether the prophecies truly foretold a second Shadow War—and if they did, what should we do now to prepare. The _Anla'shok_—the Rangers of Valen's time—still existed, but had dwindled greatly, especially over the past two hundred cycles. Now they were a mere handful, and there was talk in the religious caste of reviving them. The warrior caste was less enthusiastic. It was their task to protect our people; they did not want to share that honored duty with the Anla'shok, who drew their members from all three castes. This, to the warriors, made them mere novices at the sacred task of safeguarding the Minbari. As for any other role they might play, the warriors were indifferent. Let the Shadows show themselves openly, rise again at Z'ha'dum or attack one of our worlds, and the warrior caste would defend us to the death; but to fear a vanquished enemy based on ancient history and old tales seemed foolish to them. And they were not shy about saying so.

Among those who said otherwise—and was listened to, even by the warrior caste—was Dukhat of the family Dalzhan. The Dalzhani were an ancient and noble religious caste clan, with strong ties to the warrior-caste Star Riders. Dukhat's father was a Star Rider, one of our best tacticians and boldest explorers—or so my father said once, when the subject came up at dinner. Dukhat was not yet the revered leader he would become, but his greatness of soul was already beginning to show itself. He served as personal aide to Sarenn, at that time the leader of the Grey Council, and by the late spring of the cycle I turned ten, rumors abounded that he would soon join the Nine himself. And perhaps more. Sarenn was ancient and tired, and it was well known that only the lack of a suitable successor had thus far kept her from passing the Staff of Valen to younger hands. It was a full cycle after all this when I laid eyes on Dukhat for the first time.

Dukhat had known my father during their midling time, the span between childhood and true adulthood. It is tradition among religious-caste Minbari to spend these cycles with a particular teacher, usually with no more than two other students. Three is a sacred number to us, and where we do not find it, we often create it. So it is with learning in adolescence; three students studying together, guided by their teacher but often learning as much from one another. The three I speak of now were Dukhat, my father, and a genial boy named Draal. Much later, after Draal became my teacher, I marveled at the picture they must have made. Draal, large and slow-moving as a deep-space cruiser, with endless reserves of good humor; my father Ravenn, slender as a young tree, curious and clever; and Dukhat in the middle. Tall and strongly built, and so quick of body and mind that few could keep up with him. My father and Draal were some of the few. Dukhat treasured their friendship, and though his Grey Council duties often kept him away from Minbar, he had promised my father a visit when he could manage it. He finally did, on a bright spring day in the Greening Moon, when we least expected his arrival.

I had spent my day in the temple library, researching the causes of the Great Inland Sea Flood that occurred nearly three hundred cycles ago. The subject was mildly interesting, but it could not begin to compete with my other purpose for being at the library—to read more of the writings of Valen. I knew where the copies were kept—the original scrolls being too fragile for any but dedicated scholars to handle—and even though I should not have been reading them before taking up their formal study in school, my curiosity would not let me rest. So I read them surreptitiously, creeping into the archives where my father often worked and taking this scroll or that one back to my own table for more lengthy perusal.

I did not always know what to make of them, but what I understood enthralled me. They spoke of great courage and terrible sacrifice, of noble deeds done for honor and love; and most of all, they spoke of a deep connection between all living beings that was our strongest defense against the darkness. Indeed, the stories suggested that in the end, it was our only defense. Divided, we would surely have fallen; together despite our differences, we had triumphed. This seemed a great truth to me, and it touched something deep in my heart. I yearned to be part of such an endeavor myself—an Anla'shok of light, standing against the darkness—and I wondered if I would ever have the opportunity.

So when the time came to go home for the evening meal, I was cramped from hunching over scrolls for hours and dusty from fishing through the stacks. I had a paper cut on one finger and ink stains on my hands. I was in no state to properly meet anyone other than Father or Mayan, who loved me well enough not to care about my disheveled appearance so long as I washed up before eating. Naturally, then, the first person I met when I came through the gate into the clan compound was my uncle Callenn. Recently elevated to the status of clan Elder, he was more pompous than ever, and even less inclined than usual to put up with me.

Such was his surprise when he saw me that, if he had had human-style eyebrows, they would have lifted clear off his forehead. "What have you been doing with yourself?" he demanded. Then he dismissed his own words with a wave of his hand. "Go and change clothes before you disgrace us all. And wash your hands. We have a very important visitor."

I should have simply bowed and gone to do as he told me. But I never could restrain my curiosity, and Callenn always brought out the worst of it. "Who is it?"

"Never you mind," he snapped. "Go and wash, before anyone else sees you. And have the grace to keep silent at table. Our distinguished guest does not need to be bored with your chatter."

When I found out who our guest was, it seemed Callenn was right. My father had spoken of Dukhat, and we all knew who he served. For that alone, we owed him the deepest respect. I scarcely dared look at him, except to murmur a greeting when my father introduced me. Mayan and I spent the hour before dinner in the farthest-away corner of the sitting area, talking quietly of inconsequential things and trying not to stare at the exalted adult company. The word _Anla'shok_ caught my ear, and I did look over then—but Callenn saw it and glared at me so fiercely that I looked away with a hot flush in my cheeks.

I managed somewhat better over dinner, at least for awhile. I stayed awake during the required meditations, and afterward the adults' conversation held my attention; even if I dared speak, I would miss something. I nibbled at my flarn, spoke only to ask for something to be passed, and happily listened for the better part of half an hour. Then the conversation turned to Valen, and the prophecies, and whether or not they demanded action from us now. I wanted to say something, but I bit the words back. Children did not speak at table unless spoken to, and no one was speaking to me. Nor would they on such a weighty subject.

"I must agree with the Star Riders," Callenn said. His habit of talking through his nose was more pronounced when he thought he knew better than someone else. "We have enough to do simply taking care of our everyday concerns. Prophecy, if true, will tend to itself."

"And if it does not?" my father asked.

"Then we know it was not true in the first place." Callenn gave a superior smile as he picked up a piece of flatbread. "Only a pretty story, tacked onto ancient history by a bard with a little too much imagination."

My shock at what he had said got the better of my judgment. The writings of Valen, a _fiction_? "But the prophecies—"

All eyes turned toward me. My father's, amused; Callenn's, annoyed; Dukhat's… I could not read him well enough to tell. Abashed, I looked down at my plate. If the remaining flarn on it had expanded to the size of a nova and swallowed me whole, I would have welcomed it.

Callenn spoke first. "Please excuse this child. She is not yet old enough to know her own ignorance." Then to me, with an edge I could not mistake: "Nor are you old enough to keep silence at table until you are addressed. I will have a word with your teachers."

I heard my father draw breath, and I wanted to melt into my chair. They would not quarrel openly in front of Dukhat; such a breach of decorum was unthinkable. But there would be words with daggers in them. Carefully blunted, so as not to offend a guest—but there nonetheless, with the knowledge only brothers can have of precisely where to sink the blade. And I had caused it. Another dispute over me, in a long string of them that had gone on since I was four.

My muscles tensed; I felt ready to bolt up from my seat, or fly apart into a thousand pieces.

Before I could move, Dukhat spoke. He sounded thoughtful. "There can be wisdom in the words of the young. They have not yet learned what they are supposed to think."

A pause. I kept my eyes on my flarn. "Look up, young one," Dukhat said. Still mild, even faintly amused.

I could not disobey him. Slowly, I raised my head. His face was grave, but there was a glimmer of humor in it. And curiosity as well. I had often seen such a look on my father's face, when we talked of my studies and I asked him a question he had not expected. It gave me some comfort, enough to get myself a little under control.

"What do you know of the prophecies?" He asked it not as if he meant to chastise or dismiss me, but as if he truly wished to hear the answer. It emboldened me enough to tell the truth, rather than stay silent and hope thereby to avoid censure.

"I have read them." My voice was very small. "I found a copy of one scroll in Father's study. And I know where the rest are in the temple library. Father works with them sometimes."

Dukhat and my father exchanged a look. Not a stern or an angry one. I knew I was not supposed to have read the prophecies yet. But my father had studied them all my life, had written commentaries on them. I had read some of those, too, though I did not fully understand them and had been too afraid of admitting my transgression to ask him about them.

"And do you understand them?"

"Not yet."

He laughed at that, which startled me. "A bold reply. But true enough. Well then, Delenn of Mir, I will ask you a different question. What do you think of them?"

For the next few moments, I could not think at all. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. What answer could I give that would not shame us all—a young girl like me, to one such as he was? Yet something in him demanded that I answer, and with complete honesty. "I think…" It was hard to find the right words. Then, suddenly, they were there. "I think they are true. And the most wonderful and terrible story I have ever read. They make me want to hide and… and fight, both at the same time."

Callenn gave a dismissive snort, but for once I did not care. I felt on the brink of something—something wonderful, or terrible, or both. My eyes did not leave Dukhat's. He nodded slowly and picked up his water glass.

"Well, Delenn of Mir," he said quietly. "We will see if time calls upon you to do those things. Make yourself ready, just in case."

After a moment that seemed to stretch forever, he looked away from me and the conversation turned to other things. Relieved to be no longer noticed, I slowly ate what was left of my flarn. I felt Mayan squeeze my free hand under the table, where no one could see. She slipped me a sideways glance, wide-eyed and admiring at what I had managed to get away with.

For myself, I was not sure I had gotten away with anything. Or if I had, it was not a victory, but a challenge.


	4. Chapter 4

Part 5—Through a Glass Darkly

Over the next few cycles, life returned to normal. We began to study Valen's prophecies in temple, and his writings on the last Great Shadow War a thousand years ago. It frustrated me that so little attention was paid to the origins of this "Minbari not born of Minbari"; when I asked where Valen could have come from, if not from among our own people, I was politely but firmly shut down. Gradually, I learned discretion on this subject; rather than raise the question in class and be ignored or squelched, I made it a personal research project. Not that there was much for me to find. Fragmentary mentions of _Tenansai_—Golden Ones, what humans might call angels—sometimes appearing with him suggested that the Vorlons had taken an interest, but that was to be expected. The Vorlons and the Shadows were old adversaries. Indeed, it would have been more unusual had no _Tenansai_ appeared. That they did told me nothing about Valen that I most wanted to know—where he came from, and why.

My father, oddly, was no help at all. He seemed to think, as my teachers did, that Valen's origins did not matter. "He was one of us, and he came because we needed him," he told me, with his characteristic patience in the face of my obsession. "The Universe knew what it was doing. What need have we to know more?"

"_I_ need to know, _Ava'mai_," I said.

He gave me a look, half affection, half exasperation. "Why?"

I had no answer for that. The not-knowing nagged at me, that was all. So little a thing, and yet it meant so much. It mattered to know where Valen had come from, and what had made him come, but I did not then understand why.

Understanding came later. So much later as to barely avert a terrible tragedy. But we have not yet reached that part of the story. What began and ended with my words still lay many cycles in my future.

Meantime, I studied, and puzzled, and studied more. And still found no answers, though there were intriguing tidbits. A reference to time that suggested Valen had walked through it as one might walk through a winter's snow: "_Then future and past met together, so that both might be as they were_." Cryptic references to _Shi'e Na_, "the One," who also seemed to be three individuals. Or one individual with three aspects: a past, present and future self. Was, is, and will be. The texts were maddeningly unclear on this point, as if Valen had tried to tell just enough for prophecy without revealing too much. As to who "the One," or Ones, might be, I couldn't venture a guess. But I kept reading, and searching, and puzzling, and driving Mayan half mad with my inability to let the subject go.

"Come outside," she said to me one day, accompanying her words with a tug on my arm. It was a beautiful afternoon, halfway through the Moon of Shining Air. The kind of afternoon where you can almost touch the sunlight. The spicy scent of _hala_ bushes, in full red-gold flower, wafted in through the open window of the room Mayan and I had claimed in the Youth Hall of our clan compound. Birds were singing, and the warm breeze could have beguiled the most grim-faced of warriors into a casual stroll across the grass.

I paid scant heed to any of it. My nose, as usual, was buried in a book—a collection of essays about Valen by the renowned scholar Davenel, a distant Mir relative who had lived and died a hundred cycles ago. Davenel was one of the few who had made any effort to discern Valen's origin, and I hoped to find some clues. Thus far, though, I had been disappointed. Davenel had determined that Valen most likely came from "a distant star, many a light-year spinward of our newest colony worlds," but the records she cited were ancient scrolls and a few equally ancient visual records, all inaccessible to a mere schoolgirl like me. There was no way to check, or to learn anything more specific. Except the names of the "newest colony worlds," which I could determine by the date of Davenel's writing. "That might give me a hint, at least," I muttered. "Though I don't see what good it does. There's so _much_ of space, so many worlds we don't even know…"

"De_lennnnn_." Mayan made at least four syllables out of my name. I knew that plaintive younger-sister tone, and I also knew it would not cease until she made me laugh or snap at her. Annoyed or amused, either way she would roust me from my studies. Which was her intention.

Already frustrated from my inconclusive reading, this day I snapped at her. "Go _away_," I said. And was instantly ashamed at my loss of control. Displays of temper were for children, and I was not a child any longer. _There are days_, I thought, _when I feel I have never been one…_

Mayan sank to her knees beside me and rested her chin on the window-seat. Bright brown eyes gazed up at me, not in the least perturbed. "Only if you promise to put that down and come out. Marenn wants fresh berries for dinner, and I don't want to go berry-picking by myself." She reached behind and dragged two baskets into view. "See, I have these already."

"Just let me finish this essay—" I broke off as Mayan stood and snatched the book from my hands.

"Not today," she said with a wicked grin, and darted out of the room.

Momentary shock held me still. Then righteous anger asserted itself. I sprang up and went after her.

She was faster than I, and was almost out of sight, though her laughter told me exactly where she was. Heading for the library, to put my book back. And not necessarily where I would easily find it again, either. Oh, she was in for such trouble when I caught her! I dashed around a corner and down one last hallway. The library door was closing, as if she had just passed through it. I followed and nearly crashed into her. She stood motionless just inside the room, my book dangling from her hand.

I snatched it back with a feeling of triumph. "Mayan, if you _ever_ do that again, I'll—"

"You'll what?" The booming, male voice that asked this did not belong to Mayan. Or to anyone else I recognized.

I looked past her and felt my heart drop into my shoes. I had never seen this man before, but I knew of him. Quite well. From my father's descriptions of his old schoolmate, the now-distinguished scholar Draal, it could not be anybody else.

He was huge, tall and broad as a mountain in his red-and-gold scholar's robes. His crest was elaborately carved, its three points elegantly upswept in sharp contrast to his craggy, homely face. The corners of his wide mouth were turned down as he looked at us, though he had not sounded disapproving when he spoke. He had sounded… curious. As if he really wanted to know what I had meant to threaten Mayan with.

"Go on," he said affably. Even in mere conversation, his voice echoed off the window-glass. "Tell me. Better yet, tell _her_. The poor girl must be terrified, not knowing what evil fate awaits her at your hands."

Mayan made a muffled sound. It took me a moment to recognize it as laughter.

Suddenly, the ridiculousness of it struck me. I started laughing too as I gripped Mayan's shoulders and gently shook her. "I'll go and pick berries with you, and when you least expect it, I will dump my entire basket over your _head_!" The laughter took over as I went on. "And then I will make you eat _every_ berry that spills. Even the green ones that are so sour, they make your eyes cross! And _then_…"

"And then Marenn will make us scrub out pots for the next nineday," Mayan said, through laughter of her own. It must have been nervous tension, I thought later. Nothing we said was _that_ funny; and to collapse into giggles before an adult, a visitor, a renowned scholar yet? If Elder Callenn heard of this, we would never live it down. Yet we could not stop laughing. Not even in the face of Draal's apparent shock at our indecorousness.

His grave look fled, abruptly as a summer storm. A broad smile lit his face as a spark lights a bonfire; no shadow or sorrow could live in the presence of such sudden, fierce delight. "HAH!" he boomed. The nearest window shook. "Revenge will have its day! And I am guessing…" He swept toward us and stopped a few feet from Mayan. "I am guessing you _like_ the green ones. Hmmm?"

She couldn't speak, could only wipe her eyes and nod.

"So, then." His voice went softer suddenly, though it was no less friendly. His gaze fell on me, and behind his good humor I sensed a formidable intelligence. And a confidence so deep and strong, not even an earthquake could shake it. "You would be Delenn, I think… you have your father's eyes."

I pulled myself together enough to make a proper bow. "I am Delenn. Your presence honors our house."

"Well spoken," he said, as if my suddenly careful manners amused him. "And you are Mayan? The one who, I am told, likes poetry?"

Mayan, too, managed a bow and a graceful reply.

"Good, good," he said. He rubbed his hands together and began to pace. "Then there is only one more of us to come, and we shall be ready."

"Ready for what?" I asked.

He halted and boomed at us again. "To begin the great journey. The journey of knowledge. The journey of learning. The journey that never ends, but continues on for lifetime after lifetime." He paused, with a suddenly ferocious look. "It will be difficult. It will be challenging. It will be…" He paused again, and a fierce grin spread across his face. "…Fun!"

The word rang through the library. He let the last echo die away, then drew himself up to his considerable full height and bowed to us. "I am Draal, of the family Kedar. Scholar in residence to the Mir clan, for three cycles or until your clan Elder gets tired of me. And I am privileged to be your teacher for the next little while."

**ooOoo**

That was my introduction to Draal, who became my dear friend and played a pivotal role in the unfolding of a destiny I would not then have comprehended. Indeed, over the next several months, I often felt as if I comprehended nothing. Draal challenged us, questioned us, made us think and speak and defend what we said. No question was too small to be thoroughly explored, no piece of received wisdom so self-evident that it could not be examined, tested, pulled apart piece by piece and then stuck back together, often in a shape completely unlike what we had assumed before. Our lessons in temple up until then had been nothing like this.

The three of us—myself, Mayan, and a new fostern of Callenn's, a long-limbed youth named Branmer—spent our first cycle of seasons together studying humor. Draal was a great believer in laughter's capacity to stretch the mind as well as cleanse the soul, and he maintained we could not learn how to really think unless we first learned how to laugh. And _why_ we laughed—the reason for laughter, he said, was as important as the fact of it. "What we laugh at tells us about ourselves. What others laugh at, tells us about them. You can learn much of another people, and of our own, by studying humor. Sometimes, you learn more than you bargain for." That fierce grin came out, as it always did when he said something likely to shake us up. "But then, if the Universe were a comfortable place, it wouldn't be learning much about itself through us, now would it?"

"My foster father says comfort comes from knowing what is expected of us, and doing it." Branmer spoke with conviction. He was clever, and well he knew it—but he had kind eyes and a ready laugh, and so we forgave him a certain amount of showing off. Besides, Draal was much more adroit than Mayan or I at gently tipping Branmer off his perch when necessary. I held back a comment that would have been too sharp for decorum—mention of my uncle Callenn tended to call forth such responses—and waited for Draal's reply.

"Quite right," he said, which surprised me. Then he went on. "The question, however, is… How do we know what is expected of us?"

Branmer stared open-mouthed at Draal, as if our teacher had suddenly grown three heads. "Tradition tells us. Everything we are taught from childhood tells us. The law scrolls, the sayings of Valen, the words of the bards and sages… all these tell us." He paused, and for the first time looked hesitant. "Don't they?"

"Ah, but tradition is not always so clear as we might like to believe." Draal began to pace, his favorite mode of thinking. His scholar's robes swirled around his feet. "Consider the tradition of hospitality. Honor requires that we give it when asked, does it not? Food, shelter and courteous words to whomever may request them, for at least one sundown to the next. Yet honor also requires that we speak and act with truth in all things. So what happens if circumstance brings one who has wronged us, and has not atoned, to request our hospitality? We must give it with courtesy, yet that same courtesy is a thing we do not truly feel. To behave as one does not feel is a kind of lie, isn't it? And Minbari do not lie. Yet how can we refuse? Two traditions are in conflict here. Which has more weight? Or can the two be reconciled?"

Branmer frowned—not angrily, but in thought. "One might offer hospitality," he said slowly, "but also state its limits. Clearly enough to make one's meaning understood, without the need to give overt insult. Hospitality is offered because one must do so, not because one wishes to. If another understands this…"

Draal was nodding as Branmer spoke. "A good solution that honors both traditions. Now let us try a more difficult example. A tradition that perhaps asks more of us in fulfilling it…"

He trailed off and looked at us expectantly. This meant we were to offer our own thoughts, for him to build on. Or knock down, as occasion required.

The thought that came to my mind then, I did not wish to voice. It would make an abstract lesson personal, in a way I did not want to deal with. A way I had avoided dealing with since my eighth summer. Branmer would surely speak, I thought. Or Mayan would, before Draal noticed me—

"Delenn," Draal said.

I cursed my own face, which all too readily showed what I thought. "With respect, Master Scholar," I said, using Draal's formal title as a way of controlling my nervousness, "I prefer to keep silent."

Mayan stiffened, but with careful courtesy refrained from looking at me. Branmer gave me one wide-eyed glance before he, too, looked away. They were giving me private space to compose myself, pretending I had not just refused to answer our teacher.

Draal regarded me for some moments before he spoke. "You may speak your thoughts freely, without censure," he said gently. "Though I will not require it of you."

His very gentleness made me ashamed. It came to me that I was a coward—not daring to bring out what troubled me and try to learn, really _learn_, its true meaning. If I did that… then, perhaps, I might begin to understand. And perhaps it would not hurt so much…

"Service," I said, my voice faint.

He waited, but I could say nothing more. It had taken all I had to get the one word out.

"Service," Draal repeated. "One of our most profound traditions, especially in the religious caste. And often one of the most troublesome."

"Why troublesome?" Branmer, puzzled and faintly challenging. "Is not service our most sacred duty? To serve is an honor unsurpassed by any other."

"But service to whom? Or what?" Draal said. He was looking at Branmer, yet I felt part of his attention still focused on me. He knew, I realized. He and my father were old friends. He must have known my mother, and what it had cost us to lose her to the Sisterhood. He wished to spare me pain if he could, yet the fact that I had spoken of this let him know I needed to air it. _I changed my mind, _I thought, feeling near to panic. _I don't want to face this now_…

"There are many forms of service," Draal went on. "All valued, though some more than others. Service to family, to clan, to caste… and to our people. These can conflict as well. When they do, which one wins out? And at what cost to those affected by the choice?"

"Can they not be reconciled also?" Branmer asked.

"Sometimes they may," Draal said. "Other times—"

"No." The choked voice that broke in was mine. In that moment, I was not sure if I was answering Branmer or trying to end the discussion.

Branmer and Draal both looked at me. On my other side, I was dimly aware of Mayan shading her averted eyes with her hand. Her shoulders were hunched, taut; she knew what I was feeling, shared it, yet could give me only privacy in an attempt at comfort. "My mother serves our people," I went on, my voice slowly gathering strength. "But to do that, she left behind her duty to me. And to my father. Our bonds were broken in the _kir'lat_—" My throat closed over the word. Abruptly, I rose. "I am not well. I will go now." Half-blinded by welling tears, I left the room.

The last thing I heard as I fled down the hall was Draal's voice, soft with compassion. "Tradition guides us, and often it is necessary. But the price can be high, and it is not always those who choose that pay."

**ooOoo**

Branmer found me some time later, perched on the lowest branch of a redbark tree. The tree was a towering thing, a bent-topped survivor of countless winter storms; it had been my special place ever since I grew tall enough to grab the lowest branch and climb up. I was huddled there now, my back against its rough trunk and my knees drawn up to my chest, fondly imagining that its silver-edged leaves hid me from view. Until the snap of a twig made me look down and I met Branmer's gaze looking up. There was no laughter in his eyes, only regret.

Mayan, who had come by earlier and only stayed long enough to ask if I wanted company, had known where to find me. She always did. I had not expected it of Branmer.

"What gave me away?" I asked.

He smiled, but his eyes stayed somber. "You're wearing blue. It doesn't blend very well with silvery green. What are you doing up there, anyway?"

_Hiding_, I thought. "I like climbing trees."

He paused before responding. "You're an unusual girl, Delenn of Mir."

I looked away from him. "Perhaps another word would suit better. S_trange_. Or _freakish_."

"I didn't say that. Or think it."

The branch wobbled. Startled, I looked down and saw he had grabbed it and was walking himself up the trunk. "Is there room enough for me?"

"If I am unusual, you are very bold." I wanted him to go away and admired his audacity, both at the same time.

"So my foster father says." He moved one foot from trunk to branch. "Is there room?"

I shifted position. "Yes. Now."

He heaved himself onto the branch with rough grace. We sat in silence for a time. I liked that he did not speak, or try to make me talk. We simply sat and breathed together, enjoying the late summer air, a fingerspan of trunk between our shoulders.

"My father was warrior caste," he said after a time. "His clan called him to service on the coreward border when I was seven. He died there. An engine malfunction."

Quicker than thought, my hands shaped the gesture of mourning. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago." His voice held the same careful control my own did whenever I spoke of my mother, which wasn't often.

I looked outward through the leaves, toward the mountain peaks that surrounded our clanhold, and laid my hand against his. A gesture of comfort that demanded nothing, that he could ignore if he chose.

He kept his hand near mine. I felt warmth where our skins touched.


	5. Chapter 5

Part 6—The End of the Beginning

There will be those who wonder if I came to love Branmer. I did, though only as a friend. Much to Branmer's dismay at first, until he had the sense to turn his eyes toward Mayan. Her steadfast heart had been his almost from the day they met, though shyness kept her from saying so. And then, when they both thought he preferred me, a sister's love warred with jealousy to keep her silent still. She poured her feelings into poetry; for one not yet of age, she was already an accomplished composer of _tee'la_, memory poems. Later, we would both look back on her early efforts and laugh at ourselves. We were so young then, too young to know anything about anything. But at the time, we thought we had great wisdom.

Why Branmer could not touch my inmost heart, I did not fathom then. He was gifted, kind, easygoing—a trait that must have greatly aided his living with my uncle—and handsome enough to turn any girl's head. I should have been sighing over him, as half the midling girls in our clan were. Yet something held me back, and it was nothing to do with Branmer. It was with me. Try as I might to talk myself out of what I knew was a foolish notion, I could not escape the sense that I was meant for another. That my heart was not mine to give, but was held in trust for someone whose path I had yet to cross.

Who that was, I would not learn until time and tragedies intervened. Not even when I spared his life, during the war between our peoples, did I suspect the truth of him.

I spoke of my odd notion only once, to Mayan… after an evening in which she and Branmer had gone for a private walk—their first—and she came back to our room with the light of the summer stars in her eyes. I was curled up in bed, poring over a scroll of Valen's later prophecies, when she drifted in like a feather on the breeze. She said nothing at first. She did not have to. It was enough that she lingered in the doorway, leaning against it as if to keep herself from floating away.

I glanced at her, then back at my scroll. It was hard to keep from smiling, let alone speaking, but I managed. She was dying to be asked how the evening had gone. I decided to see which of us would break the silence first. It was not often I got a chance to tease my merry-hearted foster sister, and I intended to make the most of it.

I counted heartbeats as I read. Some twenty of them went by in the quiet. Then Mayan began to hum. Her soft voice echoed through the room. Resonant and clear, sweet as honey, light as air.

I knew the song. It was an ancient tune, from five hundred years before Valen. A song of first love, attributed to the famed _tee'la_ composer Korenn. It was so lovely, it had made us both cry the first time we heard it.

I decided the song was enough. "A pleasant walk?" I asked, my gaze still mostly on the scroll.

She hummed through to the end of the verse, then gave me a brilliant smile. "Yes. Very."

"And?"

She drifted further into the room, swinging her cloak off her shoulders and draping it over a chair back as she went. "And what?"

I set down the scroll, looked at her and waited. More heartbeats. _One, two, three, four, five…_

She laughed, a breathless sound—then crossed the room, threw herself down by the bed, took my hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, Delenn! I _can't_ tell you… there are no words…"

I knew her better than she knew herself. "You will find them."

"He held my hand," she said softly after a time. "He told me I'm beautiful."

I tried, and failed, to keep my face straight. "It is good to know Branmer has eyes. And can use them."

She pulled away a fraction. "You're laughing at me," she said, and though she was mostly laughing herself, I could hear the uncertainty beneath.

I pulled her close, rested my forehead against hers. "No, _shonamai_. I am only so happy for you, I cannot help my little jokes. If they hurt you, I will stop."

She relaxed and leaned against me. "_I _am the one who makes the jokes. Have you forgotten this?"

"Valen forbid." Then we were both laughing, the shared laughter of two young girls who have just discovered love. Mayan through experience, myself through observation. And suddenly, just for a moment, I felt wistful. _I want to feel like she does_, I thought as I studied her shining face. _I want to look at someone I love and see that joy reflected in his eyes…_

"He asked me to walk out again tomorrow," Mayan said. Giddy, and still slightly disbelieving.

"You will go, of course?"

"Yes." She didn't need to say more.

We sat motionless for a little while. Then Mayan straightened. She wore a serious look, and I knew she had read my earlier yearning in my face. "It should have been you. Branmer wanted you first." She said it matter-of-factly, with no trace of jealousy, the way one might say, _it snows in winter_.

I shook her hands gently. "There is no 'should' about it. Branmer loves you. You love him. You are both happy. As for me…" It took a few seconds to find the words. "I will wait for love to come. And if it does not…" A lump rose in my throat; I swallowed past it and kept going. "Then it does not. But… I think it will. Someday."

She laid a hand against my cheek. "Who are you waiting for, _shonamai_?"

"The other half of my soul."

I did not know where those words came from. But as I spoke them, I knew they were true.

**ooOoo**

Autumn came, and the Nine Days that mark the brief transition to winter in Minbar's southern hemisphere. The blizzard winds that followed were harsh, but our hearts were light. The next cycle of seasons would see us all come of age—an event we looked forward to with the breathless excitement of children on Festival morning. And a touch of sadness as well, because it meant separation. For the first time in a long while, we would be in different places. Good places, we hoped; places we were meant to be, that would set our feet on the paths we were meant to take.

That there might be many paths, some blocked and others blind alleys, did not occur to us. We were too young to know that heartbreak is the other side of happiness, and that both come as the price of living. All three of us had known loss; but we did not yet understand its place, or the perilous gifts it brought.

For now, we had our hopes. Mayan wished to apprentice to Kelanar, one of fifteen master composers of _tee'la_ then resident in Tuzanor; Branmer sought appointment as an aide to the scholars at the Temple library, where he could be near Mayan and our most treasured ancient records. As time passed and my naming-day drew closer, I felt ever more unsure. What did I want? Who did I wish to become, and how should I best serve my people?

My thoughts kept returning to Valen, especially to the stories. They had been so brave, Valen and the Nine. Steadfast and strong in their actions, even though the accounts made clear that they often felt lost and afraid. Unsure of themselves, as I was. Presumptuous, I thought, to compare myself to them—an untried girl, of whom little had been demanded or likely ever would be. And yet… and yet.

It was in this frame of mind that I approached my coming-of-age ritual, on the twenty-first day of the Soft Winds Moon. I was born on the nineteenth, but it is custom among Minbari to wait three days before bestowing a name on a new-embodied soul, and to count the naming-day as the true beginning of life. In ancient times, the gap between birth and naming was three changes of the moon—enough to know whether a newborn would survive the rigors of our climate. Survival nowadays was rarely in question, but the symbol of three remained. I spent those three days in meditation, seeking inner balance that eluded me. I had a sense of things in flux—as if time, space and existence were bound up in a vast wheel of forces, shifting from light to darkness and back again. I felt currents, eddies, sometimes the electric tension of approaching storms—but what any of it meant, how it might appear in everyday reality, or if it would appear at all, I did not know. And I wondered—how should such thoughts, such visions, come to me? Who was I but Delenn of the family Mir—not especially wise, or gifted, or even important. A scholar's daughter with a keen mind and (I hoped) a good heart. No more.

And no less, as it turned out.

My coming-of-age brought me joy and sadness intertwined. I was the first of us to reach the occasion, with Branmer and Mayan soon to follow. They both took part in the ritual, along with Draal and my father. Draal beamed on us all like a fond uncle throughout—a vast improvement on Elder Callenn, who looked sour and bored. My father was so moved he could scarcely speak the ceremonial words. The love and pride in his face told me his heart, and made me happier than anything else on that momentous day.

My mother—Tzetai Chenann, as I had learned to call her by then, her title meaning "Gifted One"—was not permitted to take part in the ritual, though she could attend if she chose. I did not see her there, and with my mind so full of other things, for once I did not miss her. Not until years later did I find out she had come, observing the rite from a secluded place. I was still barely reconciled then to her loss; my peace of mind regarding her was fragile, and she did not wish to disturb it. The sight of her afterward at the celebration—a slight figure in a grey-blue robe, set apart by her status from the chatting guests—gave me a strange feeling. Not quite love and not quite pain. _Confusion_ was the closest word to describe it, and even that conveys a mere fragment of the truth.

My father, walking in beside me with my arm through his, felt my hesitation and stopped. One keen, grey-eyed glance went to Chenann; then he looked down at me. "You should greet the Tzetai," he said quietly. No ears but mine could have heard the slight tremor as he spoke of her by title instead of by name.

"I will." I pressed his arm, then let it slip away. Draal swooped down on us and swept him off toward the refreshment tables, booming a question about his latest commentary on the early prophecies of Valen. I was left alone.

Mayan and Branmer were standing in a corner, absorbed in each other. I wished one of them would come and rescue me, but knew it was a foolish hope. I looked at my mother just as she glanced at me. I could not read the emotion in her dark eyes—only that something was there, strong and struggling to get out.

She saved me the trouble of going to her by coming to me. Three steps away—a properly respectful distance for greeting a new adult—she halted and bowed. "An honor to see you today," she said.

I bowed in return. "The honor is mine, Tzetai."

She went still a moment, and I feared I had offended her. It slowly dawned on me that this must be difficult for her as well. How does a mother greet a daughter, or a daughter her mother, who has not been one for more than twelve cycles? In that moment, I understood what Draal had been trying to teach us about tradition so many seasons ago. It guides and binds us, but it is not always kind. And, like everything else, it must be ever weighed and judged, to determine how—and when—it is best worth keeping.

"I have heard—" Tzetai Chenann broke off and glanced down at the slender glass of water she held. "I have heard you did well at your studies."

"So I am told," I said.

Another strained silence fell between us. I did not know what to say to her. After a time, I asked her to convey my respects to the Eldest of the Sisterhood's chapter house in Yedor. She assented, and then commented on the severity of the past winter's storms. When I spoke of this to John, years later, he laughed a little ruefully and remarked how oddly appropriate it seemed that awkward conversations among Minbari as well as humans seemed to turn on the weather.

Then, finally, it was over. Chenann bowed again, murmured a ritual farewell, and moved away.

A hand slipped into mine, warm and familiar. "Branmer says to come out with us," Mayan said, her eyes on Chenann's retreating form. "He is in the courtyard with a plate of _chirnoi_. We will have to eat them all if you don't come."

I pressed her hand to my heart and gave her my brightest smile. "You know I will come whenever you ask. Lead the way."

**ooOoo**

By high summer, we had all three come of age and were eagerly awaiting the next step in our journeys. As religious caste, we would be assigned as aides or apprentices to those of higher rank—in the arts, in scholarship, in politics and law and government. The Mir clan was known for musicians and poets, scholars and mystics, and we had all done well as students. We trusted our elders to make good decisions as to where we should be placed—yet not knowing made our stomachs churn with excitement and anxiety.

I was the first to receive word of my posting, from Draal on a wet afternoon in the Moon of Shining Air. It had rained all day, which made Mayan gloomy but offered some respite from the heat. I was in the library, staring out at the rain instead of reading the Narn language primer in my lap; somewhere, I had gotten the notion that learning yet another language might prove useful if I were apprenticed among the diplomats. Whether I wanted such a posting, I could not have told anyone, least of all myself.

"There you are," Draal boomed from the doorway. A small ornament on a nearby table wobbled from the force of his voice. He waved a paper at me and beckoned. "Come and get it, then. I confess to some disappointment; but I think you will be pleased. It is an excellent opportunity for you, and well deserved."

I set the primer down and went to him. He handed me the paper, with a look that combined fondness and exasperation. "What I shall do now, I don't know," he said. "They might have asked me…" He frowned. "Ah. They did ask me, now I recall. I shall have to remember not to give such glowing recommendations in future."

I did not understand, but I had read the paper by now and had room in my head for nothing else. I could not believe what was on it. I read it again, then a third time.

"This… there must be some mistake," I murmured.

"Do you think so?" Draal looked hopeful. Then his craggy face fell. "No, I fear not. As I said, it is an excellent opportunity. And you are well suited for it. Better, I daresay, than you think."

"Are they sure they want me?" I said. My voice sounded very small.

He dropped an arm around my shoulders and shook me gently. "My dear child, if they were not sure, they would not have sent it. Now go ahead and smile, and run off and show it to your father and your friends. Be happy. The honor is merited."

I felt the smile coming even as he said it, though disbelief still outweighed joy. Then something he had said earlier dropped into place, and I gave him a puzzled look. "You are disappointed. Why?"

"Because _I_ wanted you for _my_ aide," he said, as if it should have been self-evident. "And instead, I must give you up to the Grey Council. The Universe is a hard place sometimes. But I suppose we must all take what comes." He grinned at me. "Go on now. Show it off. You've earned it."

Briefly, I pressed my hand to his heart. My steps were light as they carried me past him out of the room. I would find Mayan first, then my father, then Branmer…

Nine days and a tearful parting later, hands damp and heart pounding from excitement, I boarded the orbital shuttle that would take me from Tuzanor to the _Valen'tha._


	6. Chapter 6

Part Seven—Journeys

The ship was huge. One could get lost in its miles of softly lit corridors. The dark floors gleamed; the walls—_no, bulkheads_, I thought—rose far above me, curving gracefully until they melded together like the walls of an ancient temple. I felt as if I had stepped into a new kind of sanctuary. The _Valen'tha_ was a starship, not a shrine—yet its vast grace and silence made it seem a holy place. That, and the presence of those who sailed the stars aboard it—the nine revered Minbari who made up the Grey Council. And the tenth, who was most revered of all.

Dukhat. Leader of the Council, and of the Minbari people. Our greatest soul, embodiment of all that was best in us. It is hard for other peoples to understand this—what he was to us, what the one privileged to ascend to that high place always is—but in a sense, he _was_ us. A living icon, a symbol of the best we were and might hope to become. To even breathe the same air as he was a gift; to serve him and the Council he headed, even as the lowliest shipboard acolyte in training, was an honor beyond measure. And I had attained it, though I could not believe it was solely through merit. The Universe, I thought, must have its reasons, but what they were escaped me.

It was Dukhat himself who gave me part of the answer, though not until several cycles after my arrival on the _Valen'tha_. For much of my time there, I did little of any great importance. Like the other acolytes, I served each of the Nine in turn: seeing to their comfort, keeping track of their datafiles, seeking information for them when their duties required it. I learned the workings of the ship: navigation, computers, engineering. Even gunnery, when I expressed an interest. I was not a specialist in any of these, but I was a scholar and the daughter of one, so I learned quickly. All of us learned enough to help crew the _Valen'tha_; those with particular aptitude would stay aboard as senior crew once they were no longer acolytes.

I did not know if I wanted this. For many months, I was too busy even to ask myself that question. I made new friends during this time—among them Rathenn, a distant Mir cousin from a colony world, whose gentle wit drew me and who shared my obsession with Valen's prophecies. Rathenn would go on to join the Grey Council and eventually become Jeffrey Sinclair's trusted ally and friend… but all that lay far ahead. Aboard the _Valen'tha_, he was simply my cousin and my confidant—one of a small group I came to love dearly, though I couldn't help missing the equally dear ones I had left behind. There were messages sent and received, even a journey home on occasion, but always too brief and not the same as sharing our daily lives.

I did not know if Dukhat remembered me, from the one visit he had made to our clanhold all those cycles ago when I was a child. I saw him a few times in the corridors—on his way to or from Council meetings, I supposed, generally moving quickly and surrounded by councillors or their aides or occasionally senior ship's crew. Once, as he was passing, I looked up inadvertently and our eyes met. His were as I remembered—pale blue like Minbar's second moon, penetrating in their intelligence. I dropped my gaze almost immediately. To look Dukhat in the eyes like that, as if we were equals, showed such presumption that I grew hot with embarrassment. Should he choose to take notice of my action, I would rightly be reprimanded for disrespect.

He said nothing. I heard his footsteps going away and breathed a little easier. My curiosity to see if he still looked the same had betrayed me. I would not make such an error again, I told myself; from this point onward, I would ignore such troublesome impulses and remember my place.

I little guessed how soon that place was to change. Or how valuable my unseemly curiosity would become.

It began when Dukhat decided to enter the Dreaming, and I was chosen to serve as protector and guide. There was nothing unusual in this; each acolyte took on this duty at least once as part of our training, for this councillor or that. I assumed it was simply my turn. Had I known then that Dukhat chose me, to say nothing of his deeper purpose, I would have been too terrified to do it. I felt terrified enough as it was.

We like to say that Minbari have rituals for everything, and that is mostly true. Some rituals, though, are far more significant than others. The Dreaming is one such—an ancient and revered practice, used when the dreamer requires deeper insight than the everyday conscious mind can attain. It takes place in a spacious gallery, with a padded floor and walls and a few benches. There are no windows and only one door, which stays sealed until the Dreaming is complete. There is no color in the chamber; every surface is pearl grey, nearly white, and small vents let in a light mist that swirls in random patterns. The pale floor and walls, the mist, and the deep silence of the chamber all help open the dreamer's mind to the shifting currents of time and space. The final tool to accomplish this is a sip of _sechlich'lenn_, "water of souls"—a drug that enhances telepathic ability and lowers the barriers we keep between ourselves and the conscious Universe around us. Only one sip, for dreamer and guide both. More than that invites madness, as the finite mind is overwhelmed by too-prolonged exposure to the Infinite.

To put it as humans might, it is a perilous thing to look upon the face of God.

My task, as guide and protector, was to monitor Dukhat's physical and mental state. Sometimes, the flood of awareness is so immense that one forgets to breathe—or the images and memories that come to mind are so powerful that the dreamer is overwhelmed. With my own mind enhanced by _sechlich'lenn_, I would sense any difficulty the moment it arose, and could anchor Dukhat or summon help as needed.

As we stood together outside the gallery, I felt Dukhat's gaze on me. I did not look up; I remembered my promise to myself and kept my eyes properly cast down. We wore white robes, a symbol of our pure intent; we had fasted for nine hours beforehand, three times three, to cleanse ourselves and prepare. I saw a slight movement in the hem of Dukhat's robe as he reached for the silver cup of _sechlich'lenn_. After a moment, the Council aide who had accompanied us pressed the cup into my hand.

The metal felt cold. I sipped and handed the cup back. Next to us, the gallery door slid open. Mist puffed out, cool and damp, like the spring fogs in the mountains around Tuzanor. The familiar sensation steadied me, and I followed Dukhat into the gallery.

Dukhat walked slowly to the nearest bench, sat, and composed himself for meditation. Unsure whether or not I should join him, I hovered near the end of the bench. He spoke no word, and though I held a vague awareness of him in my mind, I could sense nothing of his thoughts. Did he wish my company? Should I make myself scarce, unless and until I should happen to feel something wrong? My very nervousness made me self-conscious. Under the growing influence of the _sechlich'lenn_, my thoughts were surely disturbing him. I took a few steps away and breathed slowly to calm myself. The mist swirled around me, and I found myself entranced by the curving shapes it made…

I lost track of time. Gradually, I remembered my purpose here. Moving as if through water, I turned back toward the bench where I had left Dukhat.

He was there, sitting very still. I envied his composure. So still…

My heart began to pound in my chest. Throat tight and palms damp, I went closer. Tentatively, I reached out to touch his shoulder.

"I am alive," he said. Blessedly normal, completely relaxed. The sound of his voice brought me intense relief, and embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, Master," I stammered. "I didn't mean to intrude… you were not breathing…"

"Of course I was." His tone was mild, but I felt abashed. Panicking over nothing—he would think me a fool. I _was_ a fool. My uncle Callenn was right; I had no proper sense of how to behave…

"Sit beside me," Dukhat said.

I sat. I could just see him from the corner of my eye, when I dared to look. I did not dare speak, but cautiously allowed myself to hope. He did not sound as if he thought me a fool…

"What was your name, child?"

It took me a moment to find my voice. "Delenn."

"Delenn?"

"Yes."

"Of the family of Mir?"

"Yes, Master."

"You have a proud heritage, Delenn of Mir. Prouder than you know."

I did not know what he meant, but I was not about to say so.

He gave me a kind look. "There is nothing to fear in the Dreaming. Only that which we bring with us. The Dreaming takes us forward and the Dreaming takes us back…" He laid a hand on mine—an affectionate gesture, wholly unexpected from one of his status toward a mere acolyte. "Walk with me in the Dreaming, Delenn."

I glanced at him. Something in his face reminded me of my father, and put my mind at sufficient ease to let me go with him.

We rose and walked together through the mists.

What I saw as we walked came to me in scattered pieces that did not always make sense. One moment, I was with Dukhat in the gallery aboard the _Valen'tha_; the next, we were walking up a mountain path near my home. Then we were in a tundra meadow, all bluish-green grass and low-growing purple flowers. I looked up and saw the sun, blazing bright; the partial curve of golden Elleya, Minbar's larger moon; small, dark dots of a _licha_ herd grazing in the far distance. And closer to us but still far away, a cluster of buildings. Crystal, some of them; sunlight glittered off their graceful spires. Others, shorter and rounder, were built of pale grey stone.

I felt Dukhat standing beside me. This was his home, I realized—the clanhold of the family Dalzhan, outside the city of Kelnaor, in the southernmost habitable part of the Northern Continent.

"A memory," Dukhat said, in a musing tone. "Of an unremarkable day, as I recall. Except that it was warm, and I spent it lazing in the meadow when I should have been studying." I looked at him, startled to hear him admit this, and saw gentle humor in his face. "I was fourteen," he continued. "Hardly more than a child, and wanting just for once to do something I wasn't supposed to. Like sleeping in the sun-warmed grass when I should have been hard at work." He nodded off toward our left, and I saw that what I had taken for a small, dark hillock was actually a boy, curled on the ground in a brown cloak, enjoying an afternoon nap.

The boy lay with his back to us, the tips of his bone crest barely visible over his crumpled hood. What had he looked like then, I wondered, and suddenly found myself on the other side of the boy, staring down at his sleeping face. There was no beard such as Dukhat now wore, and the softness of youth still overlay the strong lines of cheekbone and jaw. He looked no different than Branmer, or any other midling of fourteen cycles.

"No signs of greatness yet," Dukhat said, his tone wry.

I felt a blush rising and looked away. He laughed and laid a hand on my shoulder. "There is no harm in thinking, Delenn of Mir. Even if you fear others might not approve. Your mind is your own, even in this place. Remember that."

"I will, Master."

"Good." He gazed down at his younger self with a thoughtful frown. "Why this memory, I wonder? A quiet day, unremarkable… and little to do with the question at hand…"

A sudden, cold wind gusted across the tundra. I looked toward the horizon and saw storm clouds. Towering, dark, nearly black—still distant, but growing as we watched. And in their depths, a hint of fire.

Dukhat drew a sharp breath and grabbed my hand. "Hold hard," he said. "Don't let go."

Then we were falling, plunging as if from the edge of a high cliff. Freezing wind rushed past us. I would have screamed, but the speed of our descent stole the breath from my lungs. Around me, all was darkness and cold—the only warmth was Dukhat's hand. I gripped it hard, a shield against fear.

Images came then—a blizzard of them, rushing past as if hurled by the furious wind. They were so astonishing, I forgot to be afraid. A field of unfamiliar stars, vast and glittering; a planet hanging amid them like a jewel, blue and green beneath swirls of white cloud. A long, narrow structure in space, one rounded end constantly turning, landing bays glowing bright orange against its other colors of blue and gunmetal gray. A face, strong-boned and narrow, with piercing dark eyes. He was not Brakiri, or Centauri; his light brown hair completely covered the top of his head, and he wore no Centauri-style crest. He was alien, of a race I had not seen before. And yet I knew him, as I knew Rathenn and Branmer and others I called friend. _Any moment_, I thought, _I will remember his name_—

A searing bolt of blue-white light—_forward battery_, said a detached voice in my head—tore through the image of the alien male. Behind it, I could just make out the shadow of a Minbari war cruiser. As the alien's face shattered into fragments, another freezing gust struck me like a fist. The wind howled like a maddened animal. I felt my heart shudder. Not mine, I realized abruptly. Dukhat's.

I still held his hand. I focused all my awareness on it—every muscle, nerve and bone. The whirling images and howling wind vanished. I found myself kneeling on the floor in the middle of the gallery, half-supporting Dukhat as he struggled to breathe.

Terror gripped me, a white-hot panic too intense to bear. Then, suddenly, I was outside it. Still kneeling, still holding Dukhat, but oddly separate from the experience. Acting on instinct, I pressed a hand to his heart. I heard its stuttering beat, loud in my ears as a sunrise drum. In my mind, I changed the sound—smoothed it out, steadied it. I felt his heartbeat slowing and steadying against my palm.

He gave a shuddering gasp, then slowly let it out. _Breathe_, I thought, and did not realize until some seconds later that I had said it aloud.

Gradually, his breathing deepened and his heartbeat stabilized. The unreal feeling ebbed. Deep exhaustion came in its wake, as if I had not slept or eaten in days. I stared at the mists swirling near the floor, unable to move or even raise my head.

Dukhat's hand covered mine where it still lay against his chest. "Thank you."

I felt dazed, unsure what precisely had happened. "For what, Master?"

"For what." His tone was sardonic, but I thought I heard affection in it. _Ridiculous,_ I told myself. _You are one acolyte among thirty…_ "You do not even know you saved my life."

_Saved his life_? The stuttering drum-sound rose in my mind. I had heard it, changed it, and then… "That was real? It happened?"

"Yes." He rose to his feet, dusted off his white robe and then helped me up. I was so tired, I could not stand without leaning on him. I thought of my father, helping me to my bedroom when I came down with fireblood fever the summer I was ten.

"Time to rest, Delenn of Mir," Dukhat said gently as the door to the gallery opened. "The Dreaming is ended. And I have many questions that need answers."

**ooOoo**

An aide took me to the ship's healer, who made me sit in a quiet corner of the infirmary and eat before doing anything else. I tried to protest that I was not hungry, but discovered after the first bite how wrong I was. Remembering to set aside a portion for Valen took immense effort; I was less aware of the food in front of me than of the driving need to consume it, the faster the better. Something spicy, winter grain stewed with vegetables from the _Valen'tha_'s hydroponic garden. And two cups of _r'fani_ tea, sweetened far more than I liked—yet the first cupful restored me enough that my hands stopped shaking from sheer fatigue, and I could hold the spoon in something lighter than a death-grip. "You body needs energy," the healer said, watching over me as I ate. "You expended a great deal in the Dreaming; your reserves are low. When you are finished, we will make certain you took no harm, and then you should sleep. You will be well enough after that."

After I had eaten, I lay patiently on a bed while the healer finished examining me. "Sleep will do it," she said, in the satisfied tone of someone who has found the answer they expected. She fetched a thermal blanket, draped it over me, and briefly stroked my cheek with the back of her hand. "You did well today, Delenn of Mir. You have brought your clan great honor."

The lights dimmed as she left me. I closed my eyes, fully expecting not to open them again for some hours. But I could not sleep, even exhausted as I was. The too-empty room, with only myself in it; the blanket, warm enough but the wrong texture; the faint scent of medicinal herbs in the air; all these conspired to keep me from rest. I have never slept well in unfamiliar places, and I did not now. I dozed, woke, dozed again. And woke again, still bone-tired, but with my mind as alert as if I had slept a night through in my own bed at home in Tuzanor.

The infirmary was silent and dim. _Ship's night_, I thought, and tried to get comfortable. It did no good. I wanted to be back in the acolytes' quarters, where I could fall asleep in a familiar bed to the soothing sound of other people's breathing. To be utterly alone while I slept was… unsettling.

I folded the blanket back and swung my feet to the floor. Brief dizziness kept me still for a moment, but it passed. Cautiously, I stood. A few steps took me to the archway that marked off the alcove where I was from the main examining room. The night-shift healer lounged in a chair by a diagnostic console, eyes closed, breathing with the slow rhythm of slumber. It would be rude to wake him. I crept out of the infirmary and into the corridor beyond.

I was still fatigued enough that I could not clearly recall the quickest way to the acolytes' quarters. After some indecision at a crossway, I turned left and walked on. At the far end of the corridor I had chosen was a spill of light, as if someone was still wakeful. Curious, I went toward it.

A few steps shy of the doorway, I heard a sound. A shimmer in the air, if a shimmer could be heard. The light flared, an impossibly bright gold. I stopped short and shielded my eyes.

Then came Dukhat's voice, sudden and sharp. From within; these were his quarters, some distance away from where I had meant to go. "Tell me the meaning," he said. "I need to understand."

The shimmer-sound came again. Within it, I could just make out a word: "_Isil'zha_."

The light flared again, then ebbed. The doorway went dark. I waited, but heard no more.

In the silence, I realized I was shivering. It was cold in the corridor, and I had no business being here. The infirmary was closer than the acolytes' quarters; perhaps I had not yet been missed. I turned and hurried away.

Not until I was back in bed, with the blanket pulled up to my chin, did I let myself ponder what I had heard. _Isil'zha_… The future.

I did not know who—or what—had spoken that word. Nor could I guess the circumstances under which I would hear it again.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: The first half of this chapter occurs in the Season 4 episode "Atonement"—specifically, Delenn's memory from the Dreaming of the incident depicted. Dialogue is quoted directly from the episode, as written by JMS; I've added description, emotional subtext and interior thoughts. Part 8—A Bend in the Road

Three days later, I found myself trailing Dukhat down a wide corridor on the _Valen'tha_, heading toward the one place aboard ship I had never expected to go. My heart was in my throat, my mouth so dry I could not have asked why Dukhat had demanded my presence even if I'd dared to. He was angry; his swift, hard stride made that clear, as had his sharp tone when he singled me out from the other acolytes in the hallway and demanded I come with him. He did not say where we were going. I guessed it only when we were nearly there, and my panic rose. Why bring me here? Was I being disciplined? For what? As best I could, I recalled my conduct over the past few days. I had done nothing untoward that I knew of. Why, then, was I being brought before the Grey Council?

The stoic faces of the guardians at the door of the Council Chamber showed little—only a subtle widening of the eyes as I passed them betrayed their astonishment at the sight of me. I shared it, and had to work much harder at control. Acolytes did not enter this hallowed place. Why was I here? How had I transgressed? For transgressed, I must have. Otherwise…

I had no answer for _otherwise_. Breathing slowly in hopes of calm, I followed Dukhat into the chamber.

The room was vast and full of shadows. Our footsteps echoed off the bulkheads, which were lost in the gloom. The sole illumination came from nine small pools of light, arranged in a circle, plus one more in the center. The outer lights were occupied by the members of the Grey Council, each of them veiled in a dark grey robe with a long hood that concealed their faces. All this I saw as we reached the circle. I stopped just shy of it, overawed by the presence of the Nine. Dukhat continued on, into the tenth pool of light. The crystal in his staff of office—the Staff of Valen—glittered in the sudden brightness.

He looked around at the Nine, eyes keen and hard. Like a bird of prey, seeking something small and soft to sink its beak into. I fought the impulse to shrink in on myself, made myself stand tall as if I had nothing to fear. My eyes might be cast down as respect required, but I should not be. Whatever was to come would come. I would not disgrace myself or my clan by appearing unready to meet it.

"Have you ever before stood in the presence of the Grey Council, Delenn?" Dukhat said.

He knew I had not. Why ask me? "No, Master."

He took a step toward me. "And do you consider yourself their equal in wisdom, judgment, maturity and intelligence?"

"No." I swallowed hard, all my fine intentions to show courage evaporating. "No, of course not." _I should not have watched his younger self sleeping_, I thought, _during the Dreaming…_ "Master, if I said or did anything—"

"You will speak when you are addressed."

I fell silent.

He began to pace around the circle. He spoke as he moved, still in the clipped tones of well-controlled anger. I did my best to listen. Dukhat and the Council were debating over a new race, called humans, with whom the Centauri had occasional dealings. They were rumored to be primitive, passionate, dangerous. Every one of the Nine opposed making contact with them, all for different reasons. "Would you like to hear them?" Dukhat said.

I floundered. "Perhaps… another might be better suited to—"

"The correct answer is 'Yes,'" Dukhat snapped.

"Yes." _No_, I thought. _I want to get out of here. I want to go look up obscure treaties for Satai Hedronn, or the finer points of clan law for Satai Morann, and forget that any of this is happening…_

He was listing the reasons now: worker caste, religious, warrior. There was no mistaking his biting disagreement with everything the Nine had said. I was not the one he was angry at, I realized. The Nine were. That thought brought me a little relief, though not much. A dispute so sharp between Dukhat and the Nine could not be good—

Four words from him broke my train of thought. Four words I would have given anything not to hear directed at me. "What do _you_ say?"

I groped for an answer. Nothing coherent came to mind. I felt twelve cycles old again, speaking out of turn at dinner about the prophecies of Valen. Only now, Dukhat was far less reassuring than he had seemed back then. I fought down panic and tried to hedge. "I… I am not qualified to judge…"

He came over to me and escorted me toward the center of the chamber. A place I had no business being. Nerves taut as harpstrings, I could scarcely attend to his words: _ten years out of temple, a head full of notions, trained to think and believe…_

"Step into the circle," he said, "and answer my question."

Silence settled around us, thick as midwinter snowfall. My pulse pounded in my temples; I would have given anything for just one sip of water. I wet my lips as best I could, drew a small breath, and prayed for inspiration.

"Valen said…" _Valen. Yes. No one can quarrel with Valen. Valen said _what_…?_ "'…the greatest enemy is the one you do not know.'" _Very good. Now explain_. "You can predict the actions of those who are familiar to you… but the one you cannot predict is the one that can harm you." I stopped speaking and waited, hoping I had passed the test, whatever it was.

Dukhat caught my eye. "And what do _you_ say?"

His voice had changed, subtly but definitely. No longer the interrogator, setting a scene to make a blunt point, but a teacher genuinely interested in what his student thought. _This_ Dukhat, I could answer honestly—as he had asked me to. So I did.

"If we do not know these humans… then they are a mystery to us." I was working it out as I went. "If the Universe puts a mystery in front of us as a gift… politeness requires that we at least try to solve it."

"Ah!" He looked pleased, as if I had given him the key to a complicated puzzle. "You're curious. You'd like to know."

At the word _curious_, my brief confidence fled. Curiosity—my besetting error since childhood, or so many of my elders had said. Yet Dukhat seemed to be… praising it?

He was haranguing the Nine now. Calling them jaded, superior, smug in their complacency, lost to the simple joy of the child and the closed box. Listening to him, I felt a strange sort of vindication. I was not wrong to be curious. My father, and then Draal… they had not been wrong to encourage me. My inconvenient habit of asking questions was not a fault, but an asset. Even a virtue, perhaps.

Dukhat ended his speech with a tersely worded order for the Council to leave: "Continue your meditations. We will discuss this again tomorrow."

The circle of lights winked out. A faint rustle of silk marked the Nine's departure. Only Dukhat and I were left, in the sole remaining pool of brightness.

He bent toward me and spoke almost in my ear. "You look as if you've been terrified into another and better incarnation." Smiling, he held out one arm. "Come. Walk with me."

We left the chamber together, and such was my relief at nothing terrible befalling me that I felt emboldened to ask a question. "Will you make contact with the humans?"

"No." He sounded resigned. They would be even more determined now, he went on, and nothing would be served by overriding their decision. "Authority should never be used as a club, Delenn."

"But… then why…?" _Why use me to show them up,_ I thought—for that was what he had done. Chosen me, a mere acolyte, to speak in all the honest simplicity of youth… a simplicity the Nine had forgotten.

Because they were being foolish, he told me, and they needed to know it. "They will be most upset with you now," he said, and put his hands on my shoulders—a gesture a father might make to a daughter. It surprised me so, I could not look at him even a little. "You have embarrassed them. I apologize for that. In my anger, I believe I may have caused you more problems in the future."

A sudden rush of warmth toward him made me stammer. "No… no, Master. It was an honor—"

"Don't interrupt when I'm being kind. It doesn't happen often, Delenn."

I knew that was not true. I had seen him speak gently to a new acolyte aboard the _Valen'tha_, overwhelmed by homesickness and unable to keep from showing it in his presence; and I knew my father would not call him friend if he were not worthy of it.

"Raise your eyes and look at me," he said.

I didn't know whether to be delighted or shocked. All I could manage was more stammering. "It is… disrespectful…"

"I cannot have an aide who will not look up." He stressed each word, making them pointedly clear. "You will be forever walking into things."

I did look up then. Staggered, joyful, I couldn't help it. "Your _aide…_?"

He was smiling down at me. "Your spirit is strong," he said. "And since I have now alienated everyone else, who would be your mentor?" He turned me so that we stood side by side, draped an arm around my shoulders, and maneuvered us down the corridor. "I will teach you myself. We will begin your training tomorrow. After the Council once again explains its wisdom to me."

I felt as if I were floating rather than walking as we continued on. An hour ago, I had been shaking with fear, certain of discipline for some grievous error I could not even remember committing. Now, I was preferred. Chosen. I had been tested when I least expected it, and proved worthy of the challenge. _Because I was curious_, I thought, _and honest enough to say so…_

So simple a choice, and yet it had brought me everything.

**ooOoo**

The next several cycles were a time of revelations. I began them as an untried young woman, hardly more than a girl, and ended them as so much more. As I told Dukhat then, and as I believe now, all I am—all I became—I owe to him. He saw depths in me that I never suspected, and called them forth with the skill and persistence of a composer creating a masterwork.

I kept track of things for him: communiques, dispatches, reports on events throughout the Minbari Federation. I researched whatever he needed: law, history, treaties and compacts, the clan and caste Books of Tradition and the sayings of the sages. The scholar's discipline my father and Draal had taught me made such tasks no burden—indeed, they became an excuse to ferret out whatever interested me once I had completed the task at hand. Dukhat often asked about these hunting expeditions of mine; he liked to hear me talk about them, and frequently shared my enthusiasm for obscure bits of law or philosophy or poetry or clan lore that my wandering searches turned up.

He taught me many things as well. How to listen to what was not said, especially during Grey Council debates. How to watch the eyes and the body for the true meaning of someone's words. How to wield authority—with strength enough to accomplish things, yet lightly enough to win through persuasion rather than command, and with justice enough to let all be heard. Diplomacy, compassion, curiosity… yes, even that, which I had both indulged in and run away from nearly all my life. Dukhat taught me to value it, as a near-forgotten virtue that too many Minbari lacked. We needed it back, he said, if we were to meet the challenges of the future.

From him, I also learned a new perspective on our past. He showed me history as it truly happened, in all its untidy complications. There was the Dilgar War, particularly the tangled mess of reasons why we had declined to get involved. The outcome of those choices, and what they had cost us as well as others. Why we should hold ourselves responsible for those others, despite the enormous temptation to simply turn away as if their business was none of ours. "We Minbari are not an island, Delenn," Dukhat told me once, over a drawn-out discussion in the Archive Room on shipboard, fueled by stacks of documents and data crystals and many cups of tea. "Our Federation is not isolated in the vastness of space, untouchable by the affairs of others except as we so choose. We are connected. The Universe is connected, each sentient race and being to every other one. And to the rest of existence as well—the rocks and rivers, the forests and grasslands, the polar ice and the molten core of the planet that gave us birth. In the end, we are all the self-same molecules that make up the stars. Different in form, but the same in substance. When we remember this, we live well. It is when we forget that trouble comes."

I touched one of the data crystals, a record of the Grey Council meeting where non-involvement in the Dilgar War had been decided on. Dukhat had been then what I was now—aide to Sarenn, then leader of our people, and so had a "front-row seat" at the discussions. "You think we should have joined the war against the Dilgar."

"Yes." He gave a wry smile as he sipped his cooling tea. "If nothing else, we would have met the humans and had a chance to take their measure. You can learn a great deal about a people based on the way they fight. Are they solid rock, an ally you can depend on? Or a flawed vein of crystal, prone to shatter under pressure?"

I picked up my own cup and cradled it. Dukhat often mentioned humans in the context of our lessons, and I suspected these references were more than passing. "You believe the humans are important to us. Why?"

He shook his head. "I am not sure yet. But I have… reason to believe it, let us say."

"May I know the reason?"

It took him some seconds to answer, and when he did, his eyes held a distant look. "Not yet. When I am certain…"

And with that, I had to be content.

We also covered ancient history—the First Shadow War, the coming of Valen, the prophecies he had left behind. And the changes he brought to our people—a final end to our bloody clan feuds, the creation of the castes, and the elevation of women from mere prizes of conquest to equal participants in society.

"That, I think, was Valen's greatest gift to us," Dukhat said, as we sorted through ancient scrolls in the crowded archives of the Temple library in Tuzanor. We had taken a rare visit home to Minbar; unlike Sarenn, Dukhat maintained that he could not truly serve as the soul of our people if he did not regularly breathe the air and touch the soil of our birthworld. That our visit coincided with my father's sixtieth naming-day, and with my own desire for leave after so many cycles on the _Valen'tha_, was passed off as pure good fortune (though I knew better; Dukhat always was kinder than he claimed). "He gave us the talents and energy of half our population, which we had foolishly squandered for thousands of cycles." He continued with deadpan seriousness, though the gleam in his eyes gave him away. "All so that, generations later, a young one like you would be able to serve our people as something more than a bargaining chip between the Mir clan and whoever might be fool enough to challenge them."

"And I am grateful for it." By this time, I had learned to tease back a little.

"Of course you are." His joking tone gave way to a pleased exclamation. "Ah! Here is the one. Come and look." He herded us over to the nearest long table and carefully spread out the scroll, weighting its corners with small, polished crystals provided for the purpose.

The scroll was yellowed with age and covered in spidery cracks. Dukhat handled it delicately, like the prized artifact it was. One fingertip hovered over the top edge. "Here. This is what I wanted you to see."

I peered at the scroll. The deep blue of the lettering and the thick lines drawn between the words were reasonably easy to distinguish amid the cracks. "Shoshann," I read aloud. A heavy blue line connected that name with another. "Mar… Maronn?" The scroll was a genealogy, I realized. The names at the top were unfamiliar, but I recognized those just beneath. "Mirilenn," I breathed. "Cataryn… Khezonn. The Three Forebears." Our clan recited their names in the Chant of Ancestors at every Midwinter Festival; I could quote the words in my sleep. "'And Mirilenn was the first of these, strong and far-seeing; she gave her foresight and her name to the Miri, who honor them now and forever.'"

"You know your clan history," Dukhat said. "But Shoshann… that is the name I want you to remember. Have you heard it before?"

"No." I waited for him to enlighten me.

"It is believed," he said quietly, "that Shoshann was a daughter of Valen. His third daughter, to be precise."

I felt my eyes widen. "Then… my clan is…?"

"Yes. If the stories about Shoshann are correct." He sighed. "Which we cannot be certain of, unfortunately. Many records were lost after the last Shadow War, among them most of those that could give us precise accounts of where Valen's daughters and sons went after they left Minbar." For a moment, he looked grim. "Considering the circumstances, I doubt those losses were accidental. But reconstructing what is missing—now _there_ is a task. The Wanderer clans have been instrumental in this… they go everywhere, they hear and record everything. Obscure stories told by great-grandmothers and grandfathers, _tee'la_ so ancient they were not written down until a Wanderer ship came to do it, folkways so old that no one remembers where or when they started… these are our signposts, Delenn. And I am still finding them." He looked up from the scroll. "I am hoping you will aid in that effort. You have a scholar's mind and a love of puzzles… and you are most persistent, especially when told you should not ask something." He gave me the crooked smile I had come to love so well. "I am counting on that, in fact."

I smiled back, then glanced down at the scroll. He had raised a troubling question in my mind, and I found it easier to speak of troubling things if I was not looking at the person to whom I spoke. "What were the circumstances under which Valen's children left Minbar?"

"They were driven out," he answered after a brief silence. "Hounded away. Not even reverence for Valen could save them. Because of their mother—of whom many accounts have also been lost, or destroyed. Those few that remain do not name her; she is known in them only as 'the Outlander.'" He stroked the scroll lightly as he continued. "According to the stories, one of her sons was killed—by the warrior caste of which he was part. Eight children survived and returned. When they returned, and what became of them, or if they truly returned at all, we don't know. All we have are suspicions, and attempts to reconstruct the truth we have lost."

I picked up one of the small crystal weights. It gleamed in the soft overhead light. "And this is important for me to know because…?"

"Because you may have a role to play," he said, as he moved the rest of the weights and carefully rolled up the scroll. "Not quite yet, but before too much longer. More than that, I cannot say now, because I do not know. But it will matter to know this, if I am right." He tucked the scroll away and dusted off his hands. "In the meantime, you can enjoy yourself digging up secrets. I want to know everything you find."

"You are curious," I said, with a small smile.

"Always. But this curiosity has a deeper purpose. We will see how it goes."

We left the archives behind and walked out into the pleasant air of early evening. In the distance, Grandmother Mountain was a towering black shape against a blaze of sunset gold. The sight of it recalled the storm clouds from the Dreaming, and I shivered.

Dukhat put an arm around my shoulders. "You are cold? Then let us hurry home. Your father and foster-sister and a most excellent dinner await us."

I chose not to speak of my apprehensions. They seemed foolish, insubstantial. Long afterward, after… everything, I wondered—what if I had spoken then? What might he have told me, that he thought he would have plenty of time for?

How wrong we were, thinking we had all the time in the world.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **The "account by Londo Mollari" of the Earth-Minbari War to which Delenn refers is an existing B5 novel—IN THE BEGINNING, by Peter David. This chapter assumes the events of that war occur as described in that book. Satai Morann's dialogue line is quoted from "Atonement".

**Part 9—Storm Winds Rising**

If we had known how swiftly catastrophe would strike, things might have been very different. We might still have met the humans exactly as we did, and Dukhat might still have died—but surely, surely the knowledge of my own ancestry would have stayed my hand against them. For it was I who struck the first blow—through my words, which began the Earth-Minbari War.

Dukhat and I returned to the _Valen'tha_, to the rhythms of life aboard ship. Council meetings, deliberations, petitions from the people of this colony world or that. More research, seeking every scrap of information either of us could find about Valen's life and his children, and what had become of them. I noted with some interest that Mayan's Wanderer birth-clan had turned up considerable lore about Shoshann—including a remarkable portrait of her, with a truncated bone crest and a shoulder-length fall of Brakiri-like, light brown hair. When I showed this to Dukhat, he stared in silence at the image on the viewer for a long time. Then he nodded once, slowly, and retired to his quarters—to meditate, he said.

I looked at the portrait for quite a time myself after he left. Was it a true representation, or only the artist's fancy? Surely the latter. No Minbari ever had hair like that. I wondered why the artist had depicted Shoshann this way. What had he, or she, been trying to say?

I reached out to wave the viewer off, then checked the gesture. Shoshann's dark eyes seemed to speak to me across the thousand years between us. A strange fancy, yet I couldn't shake it. Her eyes reminded me of something, or perhaps someone—but who or what, I did not know.

**ooOoo**

Another cycle passed, and before long it became clear that Satai Khirinn—the oldest of the Nine, nearly of an age with the departed Sarenn—was failing. When she requested release from her oath of office, so that she could spend her last few cycles on Minbar among her family, Dukhat and the rest of the Council easily granted it.

Khirinn _ys_ Hajor was of the religious caste, and so it fell to my caste to replace her. As was the custom, three candidates were offered… and all three were politely rejected. Clan and caste politics played their usual role, but there was more in it this time. The Grey Council was quietly, subtly divided over what seemed like a relatively minor issue—the status of the Anla'shok, and whether or not that status should change. Khirinn had been an advocate for strengthening them, though not an especially fervent one. She was content to let the process take its time. Of the eight councilors that remained, three were strong advocates, one was moderate like Khirinn, and four were either mildly or strongly opposed. Where Dukhat stood, no one knew. The question had not come up in full Council, being deemed of insufficient importance. Khirinn's departure, however, made things different.

I had my own opinion on the matter, though I hesitated to voice it. I was, after all, merely an aide. I had grown considerably in skill and confidence from the young girl too timid to look Dukhat in the eyes when told to, and I knew several of the Nine had come to respect my competence in my role. But to voice my thoughts on the Anla'shok, unasked, would have been presumption of the highest order. So I said nothing, and watched, and listened, and before long it became clear that the eight remaining Council members were hopelessly deadlocked. It was equally clear that both sides—the three warrior caste and one worker against, versus the other two religious and worker caste members for—regarded the vacant spot on the Grey Council as a means toward winning the argument. And neither side meant to give it up.

"What will you do, Master?" I asked Dukhat finally, as we walked away from the Council chamber after a particularly contentious meeting at which—again—nothing had been resolved. I was not normally so blunt with my questions, though by this time I knew Dukhat did not mind. Sometimes, I thought he rather liked it. The division troubled me, and I sought reassurance. Like most Minbari, I had grown up believing the Grey Council was the repository of wisdom, and spoke with one voice for all the castes and clans. That the warrior and religious castes should be at such sharp odds, and the worker caste split, over any question seemed like a bad omen. "If none of the candidates are acceptable to all, then… will you step in? Choose Khirinn's successor yourself and persuade them you are right?"

"Oh, I will not choose." We had reached the small study where I generally did my work, and he gestured for me to precede him. "They will choose. I will merely propose."

I went to my workstation and waved the computer awake, then slotted in the data crystal I had brought from the Council chamber. As it busied itself copying the recording of the latest meeting, I looked over at Dukhat. "The candidates all seem… adequate. I—"

He burst out laughing. "'Adequate.' Such praise as that is cold sunlight, or warm snow."

I flushed. "A poor choice of words, Master. But a true one. You have always told me to speak honestly."

"For good reason," he said gently. He leaned against the side of the workstation, arms folded across his broad chest. "So answer me this, honestly. What do you think should be done with the Anla'shok? Should they be expanded? Disbanded? Or left to limp along as they are?"

He was asking me? "My word will carry no weight with the Council."

"Nonetheless." He held my gaze and waited.

I took a moment to compose myself. It was not a simple question, even though some of the Nine wished to make it so, and I would not fail Dukhat by a too-simple, too-swift answer. "I would vote for expansion," I said slowly. "But before I did so, I would speak personally with Anla'shok Na Lennon. I would want to be sure the need was real. That…" I faltered, unsure for a moment of how to word the rest of my thought. "That the signs of the Shadows rising again are what he believes they are. That we are not being misled either way—by the desire to win glory in fighting a noble crusade, or to avoid a battle we fear we will lose. We nearly lost the first Shadow War; if it had not been for Valen, and the lessons he taught us…"

I did not need to say the rest. We had talked of it often, in our discussions of Valen's life and writings. If it had not been for Valen, the Shadows would have destroyed us. We were not strong enough to defeat them on our own. No one was. Valen showed us there was no shame in joining forces with others. In acknowledging we needed help and accepting it when offered. He showed us the limits of pride, the terrible errors it could lead to. And we learned, and changed, and grew a little… and won a lasting peace in which to grow and learn a little more. All because of a Minbari not born of Minbari. For all I had learned of Valen since my childhood, I was still no closer to knowing what that cryptic phrase meant.

Dukhat was giving me the benevolent look of a proud father. "You have put your finger on the deeper problem," he said. "And also solved one for me. I have been thinking of this for some little time now—you have confirmed what I needed to know."

I was glad to have been of help. "So you know whom you will propose?"

"I do," he said. "I definitely do."

**ooOoo**

My own name was the last one I expected to hear him say, the next day in the Council chamber. For some moments, as those remaining of the Nine reacted with varying degrees of surprise, shock and calculation, I was certain I must have heard wrong. "Master," I said softly, anxiously, over my shoulder where he stood near me, "I… you have honored me greatly, but… I am not ready for this. I am too young, I don't know enough, I'm not qualified—"

He laid a hand on my shoulder. "You are questioning my judgment, Delenn of Mir?"

"No," I stammered. "No, of course not… but…"

He leaned forward and murmured in my ear. "Then hush and enjoy the fun."

_Fun?_ I swallowed hard and willed the heat of embarrassment in my cheeks to subside. As I listened to the councilors mutter among themselves, I gradually saw what he meant. One by one, they were persuading themselves that they could accept me… that, precisely because I was young and relatively inexperienced, they could sway me to their point of view. On the Anla'shok question, and perhaps others as well. Before long, I was hard put to keep from smiling. From hopeless deadlock to near-unity, in less time than it takes to tell it… all because eight people who rarely asked my opinion about anything were certain they could shape it to their liking. And Dukhat would get precisely what he wanted, all while persuading the Council that _he_ had acceded to _their_ wisdom regarding who should be elevated to their number. It was a master-stroke, and it taught me more about diplomacy and politics than all the study of law and history ever could.

And so I became satai, on a day whose events are seared forever in the memory of my people. That day, we lost the best of ourselves, in more ways than one. That day, I lost my innocence along with my teacher and mentor. For a time, I lost hope as well. A moment of rage, fueled by grief—and then, for three years, bloodshed and vengeance. Despite my efforts to stop what I had started, despite the reality that many of us grew sickened by it well before the Battle of the Line… we went mad, we Minbari, and for too long not enough of us were ready to be sane again.

I will not write here of the savage ugliness of the Earth-Minbari War. For those interested in battles and casualties, many well-written histories exist. For those who wish to know more of the whys and wherefores, Londo Mollari's account—published after his death by Vir Cotto, the recently deceased Centauri Emperor—is excellent. It spares nothing and no one, and is as close to the whole truth as any account by an imperfect sentient being can get. Londo always had that unexpected honesty in him. Even when he most wished to, he found it impossible to delude himself for long. But I am wandering now, as the old often do. Also because it is painful, this part of my tale. To know myself tested and found so terribly wanting—to know that millions died because I made a choice when I had no business doing so—the anguish of it never leaves me. It will be with me for the rest of my life, and for all my lifetimes to come.

John said, when I finally found the courage to tell him of it, that the divided Council should not have asked me whether to wait or to strike back. Or else they should not have heeded me. Dukhat was mere minutes dead in my arms; in that moment, I was not quite sane. They should have known that, he said, and given me time before demanding my vote. A day, or even just an hour, might have made all the difference.

_Perhaps they should not have asked_, I told him. _But I should not have spoken_.

I was horrified by what I had wrought almost before the end of our assault on the first Earth Alliance base we reached. Our flotilla, originally bound for Z'ha'dum to seek evidence of the Shadows' rising, had instead followed the _Prometheus_ and exacted brutal vengeance for the killing of Dukhat. Down on the shattered base, with human and Minbari dead all around us, Satai Morann told me the violence could not be stopped: "It is a holy war now, Delenn. Our people have gone mad, and it must burn itself out in blood. No mercy. There is no other way."

He sounded shattered when he said it. Though I did not feel it then, in subsequent days that gave me a glimmer of hope.

It was true, as he said, that many of our people were maddened with grief. They wanted blood for blood, and would not be denied. _No mercy_ was repeated across the Minbari Federation: in tea shops and houses, in temples and on the warriors' training grounds. Especially on the training grounds. It had been a long time since the warrior caste had anyone to fight—even barbarians, animals, were something to test their mettle on. And when it became clear that the animals could fight back, the challenge grew that much more worthy. Every dead warrior was added to the ledger, alongside Dukhat and others who had died on the _Valen'tha_. And the lust for vengeance grew.

But not among us all. This was my hope, faint but real, during the first year of the war. There were those like Satai Morann, who believed the killing unstoppable but were appalled by it nonetheless. And Lennon, leader of the Anla'shok, who saw the war as a terrible distraction from the real enemy. And after an attack on an Earth colony where for the first time children appeared among the dead, more Minbari began to question whether our crusade against the "Earther barbarians" was right after all. To kill those who had harmed or could harm us was one thing; to kill their young, another. I could not leave the _Valen'tha_—as satai, my place was there—but I did what I could to find those who sought peace, to see what chance there was of persuading all our people—and a majority of the Grey Council—toward it.

I did not lend my name to these efforts. I couldn't. Six of the Grey Council were avid supporters of the war, and though they paid me outward respect as the chosen of Dukhat, they were also among those who privately thought me naïve and malleable. They would not have hesitated to accuse me of dishonoring Dukhat's memory if I faltered in my demand for vengeance, and with anger running high throughout Minbari space, it would not have taken much to achieve my ouster. Stripped of rank and disgraced into the bargain, I could have done nothing to stop the war. So I worked quietly through Lennon and the Anla'shok, seeking some way to turn our bloodlust into a desire for peace.

Then came the incident with the _Drala'Fi_—the _Black Star_, as humans called it. Their one great victory, given to them by a young EarthForce soldier new to command, who rose to the occasion and turned their defeat into ours. A soldier named John Sheridan.

They hailed him as a hero, gave him his own ship to command, played gun-camera footage of the _Drala'Fi_'s demise over and over on their vid networks. He had proven they were a force to be reckoned with, despite the ease with which our ships routinely destroyed theirs and devastated their bases and colonies. By killing our flagship and all aboard her, John Sheridan gave Earth new reason to fight. New hope that, perhaps, they might even prevail.

The Minbari did not call him a hero. We called him Sheridan Starkiller. And worse names—coward, deceiver, murderer. For he had destroyed the _Drala'Fi_ by subterfuge, pretending his own vessel was dead in space and luring ours into a mined asteroid field. This, our people could not abide. With few exceptions, those who had flirted with notions of peace-making turned sharply against the idea. Starkiller, they said, had proved I was right in my denunciation of humans: they were barbarians, animals, weak cowards who deserved no mercy.

Those words again. _No mercy_.

I never told John that his action against the _Drala'Fi_ gave fuel to the terrible fire that nearly consumed his people. He had sacrificed enough without having to bear that knowledge as well. But what little hope I had cherished of peace died along with the _Drala'Fi_ and her crew. And the war dragged on.

In the second Earth year of the conflict, Lennon and I hit upon the idea of a peace mission to the humans. A secret one, as by this point neither side could publicly admit to wanting anything short of total victory. The Narns were willing to provide neutral ground, on an abandoned mining colony. We knew the luster had worn off the _Black Star_ incident, and that our steady assault waves on human worlds once again had them afraid for their own survival. Despite public posturing, it seemed likely they would respond to an offer to talk. As for what our own people would think, that was a problem to be dealt with once there was a peace offer on the table. But someone had to start, and it had to be the Minbari.

The mission was a disaster. We did not know who was responsible then, but a Centauri warship attacked the negotiators before they had a chance to do more than exchange names. The Centauri had heard of the Narns' involvement, and apparently believed it was an arms deal they were scuttling. Lennon and his aide died in the assault, and the two Earth negotiators were captured. They were brought aboard the _Valen'tha_—two battered, scruffy-looking EarthForce soldiers, with young faces but old eyes. Eyes that had seen too much warfare and death in too short a time.

I did not know their names then, let alone what they would become to me. One a dear friend, the other so much more. But I knew that look. I wore it myself every day. It made me unsure when the warriors who brought them before me accused them of treachery. "They killed Lennon, Satai," one warrior said, aiming a savage cuff at the nearest human's head. The taller of the two, I noted, the one with flame-colored hair. He saw the blow coming and rolled his head to absorb it. His face was bruised, his bottom lip torn and bleeding. The other human, slighter built and darker-skinned, looked little better. Clearly, the warriors had taken some revenge already.

"Are you certain?" I asked. "Did you see it happen?"

The warrior's jaw tightened. "No, Satai. But Lennon and Tennet are dead, and these two _Earthers_"—this with another hard blow—"are alive. What other explanation could there be?"

What other, indeed. I turned away, heartsick. Lennon was dead. My friend, one of my few allies in the search for peace. I had sacrificed him, and for what? So the humans could kill him in a cowardly act of betrayal, pretending to agree to peace talks while planning murder?

Yet there was that look in their eyes. Especially the tall one with the bright hair. Something about him drew me—a disturbing, impossible sense of connection.

I did not want to acknowledge it. "Take them away from me," I said, dismissing the warriors and their captives.

As I turned away, I glimpsed the tall one struggling against the warrior who held him. He began shouting in what I vaguely recognized as Earth's primary language. The sound of it was familiar, from my studies of humans before the war and from what we had learned of their languages since, but I did not understand a word he said, except for Dukhat's name. Only the desperate courage in his voice as the warriors tried to beat him into silence.

Then he said something I did understand. "_Isil'zha_! _Isil'zha_!"

I whirled around and stared at him. In that moment, I felt grateful for the opaque fabric of the hood that hid most of my face; Valen alone knows what my expression would have revealed.

There was a brief silence. The smaller, darker human was staring at his companion, clearly puzzled. The warriors, having caught my startled reaction, waited to see what I would do.

The flame-haired soldier spoke again. Softly, urgently. "_Isil'zha_."

I clasped my hands tightly inside my long sleeves. The shimmering, alien voice in Dukhat's quarters—which I had since learned was a Vorlon's—had spoken that word on the night of the Dreaming, so many cycles ago. That this human would know it was impossible… unless…

"Let them go," I said.

The warriors looked shocked. "But Satai—" the lead warrior said.

I raised my voice. "They did not kill Lennon or Tennet. We will find out who did. Bring these men to a life pod and let them go. Unharmed."

Grudgingly, the warrior bowed. "As you will, Satai."

I watched them leave, though I did not have to. The warriors would obey me whether they wished to or not. Just before they turned the corner, the tall Earth soldier looked back at me. I could see his eyes through my hood, and once again I felt that mystifying sense of connection. As if we had met somewhere, but so long ago that only my soul remembered.


	9. Chapter 9

**Part 10—Sundering**

The war dragged on, and time dragged with it. We struck more human bases and colonies, advancing toward their primary solar system. They fought harder than ever, fueled by terror that we meant to annihilate them. All to no avail; every Minbari life they took was simply one more added to the scales, one more death to avenge.

With Lennon gone, I had no allies in my quest for peace. Satai Morann and Satai Hedronn, both of whom were sickened by the carnage, were unwilling to act against the majority of the Council—and without such backing, the people would not be swayed either. So ingrained was the Minbari habit of deference to the Grey Council that the majority would have won any dispute that became public, or else there would have been a schism so deep it could bring civil war. I shrank from that, though in the small hours of night aboard the _Valen'tha_ it sometimes seemed a viable—if terrible—possibility. Innocents would die no matter what I did—either more humans in our ruthless crusade, or our own people turned against each other if I broke with the Council and denounced the war. Which path would bring less bloodshed? And by what right did I choose whom to sacrifice—I, who had begun all this with two ill-chosen words?

_No mercy_. I was the one who needed mercy now, and so I went to the one place where I hoped I might find it. In the first month of winter, when the cold closed in, I took a brief leave from the _Valen'tha _and went home to Tuzanor.

"He will not receive you," Elder Callenn said, when I arrived snow-swept and chilled at the Mir clanhold. As was proper, I had gone first to pay him my respects before visiting my father's house. Callenn welcomed me with more warmth than I expected, offering me tea and fruit as if he meant it rather than as an unpleasant duty. I thawed out, ate and drank enough for good manners, and then asked how my father was. And received Callenn's shocking reply.

I was startled into bluntness. "Why not? Is he ill, or—"

"He is not ill." Callenn's lip curled, and he spoke through his nose. "He opposes the war against the humans. He is likely to make his displeasure known to you as clearly as he can, should you go to him."

I almost blurted out the truth then and there, but stopped myself. Callenn knew I had called for war in the first place, knew my vote had been the deciding one. I had a bad feeling about his unusual warmth toward me, and his clear disapproval of my father. "And you, Elder?" I said, as if speaking of some triviality. "What are your feelings in the matter?"

He was silent for some moments. Then his gaze darkened. "They took our greatest one from us," he said. "And have taken more since. The _Drala'Fi_ was only the start." One hand tightened around his cup. "You have done what is needed, Satai Delenn. You said _no mercy_, and you were right. They do not deserve it. They are destroyers; they do not deserve to live."

No mention of how many humans we had destroyed. The tea I had drunk threatened to climb back up my throat. I forced it down. For once in my life, I had won my uncle's unqualified approval—for an error in judgment that had cost tens of thousands of lives, and would cost more yet unless I could somehow achieve a miracle. Only iron self-control kept me from showing how much it sickened me.

I thanked him for the tea what graciousness I could muster and then left for my father's house.

**ooOoo**

The sun was low in the sky, the thin curve of golden Elleya just visible over the shoulder of Grandmother Mountain, when I reached the little pathway that led to my childhood home. The house seemed smaller than I remembered, though perhaps that was an effect of my spending so many cycles in the vast halls of the _Valen'tha_. The sunlight struck a warm glow from the timber and blue-veined stone. I hoped it was an omen.

I reached the door and tapped the triangular chime that hung just outside it. The shimmering bell-sound echoed through the cold air. I waited, my breath coming in white puffs. Even my hood couldn't keep out the chill for long; the top of my head was getting cold, and my ears were beginning to tingle. I clasped my hands to stop their shaking. Was my father here? What was taking him so long?

Finally, I heard a step on the other side of the door. Then it opened, and my father stood in the gap. He looked old; there were lines around his eyes and mouth that had not been there the last time I saw him. _With Dukhat,_ I thought, _at Father's naming-day,_ and my heart gave a painful lurch. How had he grown so frail and bent in so short a time?

He did not smile, or even bow in greeting. We merely stared at each other, both of us barely breathing. His face wore a closed look and his eyes were shadowed. I bowed my head, finally, as an excuse to stop seeing them. "Father," I said. Apprehension made me use the formal mode. I could not believe Callenn was right, that my own father would not receive me, yet it appeared he was. _No,_ I thought. _It is not true. He will see I am here because I need him… I need him to help me, shelter me…_

"I am not well," he said. His voice was flat. "I have lost my daughter."

Shock kept me mute. Seconds passed. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. "I am here," I said finally, faintly. "Here in front of you. Will you not welcome me, _Ava'mai_?"

He flinched, and in his eyes I saw deep pain. Then they turned hard again. "My daughter would not demand the blood of an entire people to avenge the death of one man. Even such a one as Dukhat. My daughter would have sought the truth before calling for war. My daughter would have had some mercy. You called for none. You are not my daughter. You are lost." He stepped back slightly and began to close the door.

I could have spoken then. I _should_ have spoken then. But pride stopped me. Wounded pride, and a hurt so deep I could not bring myself to fully acknowledge it. He believed this of me—that I still wanted the humans slaughtered, even after so much time. He did not ask if my heart had changed, did not even seem to consider that it might have. Did not ask how it was that the daughter he loved and raised and thought he knew could have said _no mercy_ in the first place.

If he thought this, then there was no point in explanations. He would not hear them. So I said nothing—merely bowed to the closing door and turned away. With every step I took back down the path, I listened—for the creak of the door opening, for a footstep behind me, for his voice calling my name. No sound came except the sighing of the wind across the snow.

I walked on through the lengthening shadows, until my sight blurred and I could see no more.

**ooOoo**

I went back the next morning, after an uneasy night at an inn in Tuzanor. Elder Callenn would have welcomed me under his roof, but I could not stand to be near him. The anonymity of the inn suited me better, though not much. I scarcely slept, could eat only a little flatbread and half a cup of tea at breakfast. Then I was out of the inn and hurrying homeward. I would talk to my father this time. I would tell him everything, break down and cry like a child. Never mind pride or self-control. I wanted comfort, craved it. He would give it. He always had before.

The house was empty when I arrived, the doors locked and the windows shuttered. I don't know how long I stayed there—ringing the chime, pounding on the front door, calling for my father. I remember tears, warm on my frozen face. Aching hands, reddened and bruised inside my gloves from the cold and the impact. Breathing hard, struggling for composure, before I went to see Callenn.

"Your father left last night," he said. He sounded disapproving. "He went to the temple library in Yedor. Some obscure document or other, probably to do with Valen. He did not say when he might return."

The news left me hollow. Gone, until who knew when. Gone so he would not have to see me. I knew that as surely as I knew my own face. My leave was up in two days; I could not stay longer. Should I follow him? I shrank from the memory of his hard eyes, with anguish deep beneath. If he had left so abruptly just to avoid me, he would only do it again. Coward that I was, I couldn't face that.

I thanked Callenn and left, for Tuzanor and then the _Valen'tha_. And I wondered, with a bleak feeling as I reached the ship's landing bay, if from now on the _Valen'tha _would be the only place I could call home.

**ooOoo**

Less than three months later, I received word that my father was dead. There had been a nine days' blizzard, worse than usual, and he had gone out on the first clear day afterward to check on those who lived on the slopes by the clanhold's western boundary. The updrafts near the mountains were tricky at best, especially during the Moon of Storms. One of them caught his flyer and smashed it into the mountainside. He died instantly, they told me—more than likely so fast, he did not even have time to recognize his danger.

It took several days to reach home. They had built the pyre on the Burning Ground by the time I arrived, and Callenn, as chief mourner, oversaw the preliminary rituals. The funeral itself began with three days of chanting and meditation, during which the entire Mir clan present reflected on my father's life, and how it had touched theirs. He would be remembered, celebrated, honored, before the shell that had held his soul in this life was put to flame.

I lived through those three days as if encased in ice. The fasting required of me as a principal mourner was easy; I had no desire to eat, did not even take the little water allowed. Beneath the numbness that enveloped me, fierce grief waited—but even that awareness was blunted by the sheer depth of pain. It was too much to acknowledge, too much to feel. So I drifted, unable to feel anything.

Mayan was there as well, honored with me as a foster daughter. She was uneasy around me; I could read it in the stiffness of her body, the hesitance with which she spoke the ritual words of condolence. And I thought—_does she condemn me, too? Believe me lost to rage and vengeance, as my father did?_

I feared the answer too much to ask. A wall of silence grew between us, increasing by the hour as we sat near my father's body in our household temple and chanted and prayed. _I _am_ lost_, I remember thinking. _Lost to everyone. Lost to myself. And I don't know the way back_.

I could not face the gathering on the fourth day, after the nine chosen clan-kin carried my father's body to the Burning Ground and Callenn lit the funeral pyre. As the rest of the Miri left that place, to go break the fast and tell stories about my father, I turned away from the pillar of flame and smoke and began walking in the opposite direction. I did not know where I was going, did not care that the others would be shocked by my absence. I needed to get away. So I left, and let my steps carry me where they would.

The morning was overcast, the wind bitter as dead hope. I walked quickly, heading down the road toward Tuzanor. What took mere minutes to traverse by flyer took much longer on foot; by the time I reached the outskirts, my face hurt and I was chilled through despite the many layers of heavy garments I wore. I welcomed the pain. At least it was something. I wished I could cry—but the ice around my heart felt so thick, nothing could break it.

I wandered the streets for long enough to change the slant of the thin light from morning to mid-afternoon. Once or twice I thought I heard footsteps behind me, but dismissed it as illusion born of days without food or water. I barely saw the buildings and parks as I passed them, took scant notice of the few people out on such a frigid winter day.

After a time I reached the older part of the city, with its narrow streets and grey stone houses. A memory stirred, and I slowly took note of my surroundings. I had halted in front of an old temple. It looked familiar. I frowned, searching for the elusive memory. Then it came. This was the temple I had found when I was eight cycles old and lost in Tuzanor, during the summer Festival. There was a storm, and I was frightened, and I ran…

_It will be warmer inside_, I thought. Shivering with cold and fatigue, I walked up the steps and went in.

The sanctuary was deserted, as it had been so long ago. Someone kept the place tended, though; the banks of memory-candles on the far wall glowed in the dimness. I remembered those candles. Like small, bright stars in the shadows. I had taken shelter here, and fallen asleep, and dreamed of Valen. And then my mother and father had found me…

I went to the wall of candles and found a match. The remembrance prayer fell from my lips almost without thought as I touched the match to a burning candle and then lit a fresh one. _For you, Ava'mai_, I thought as the wick caught. The tiny light blazed up. I bowed my head. A fierce need to weep swept over me, but I couldn't make a sound.

I heard a step behind me. A familiar hand gently clasped mine—small and delicate, the warmth of it a shock against my cold skin.

I did not need to look. I knew it was Mayan, with me as she had always been. Even when we were far apart. The wall between us was gone, vanished like snow in sunlight.

The ice around my heart broke. Suddenly I was sobbing, drowning in grief. Only Mayan's arms around me, her forehead pressed to mine, kept me from being swept away.

**ooOoo**

She took me home after a time, to her own small house not far from my father's. I drank a little tea and then slept as she sat beside me, singing a lullaby and holding my hand. When I woke, I was finally able to eat. And talk. I told her everything, poured out my heart as we knelt by the table, the remnants of our supper going cold. The _Prometheus_, Dukhat's death, the madness of grief that had made me cry out _No mercy_. My horror when I saw my own words made real in dead human bodies. The peace mission, Lennon and Tennet, the EarthForce soldiers whose lives I had spared as the one small gesture I could make against the savagery of the war. I spoke of the soldier with the flame-colored hair, whose apparent connection to me still made no sense. "He knew what the Vorlon said. He knew Dukhat's secret. Lennon must have told him before he died." I toyed with the handle of my eating utensil. "That much at least I can guess. But I don't know why he seems so… familiar. As if our souls recognized each other, even though we had never met. Until that moment, I never saw a human face to face." I swallowed hard. "Not alive, anyway."

She leaned across the table. Her fingers closed around mine, stilling my restless hand. "I should have known your heart had changed. I wanted vengeance myself, when we first heard how Dukhat died… but then afterward, when we saw the dead children on the first colony world we struck… I could not believe you would condone that, no matter what the humans had done." Her gaze flicked away from me. "But when you did not reply to my message… I didn't know what to think. I should have known you better, Delenn. I _do_ know you better. I'm sorry."

I squeezed her hand in silent forgiveness. "I never got it. I would have answered if I had."

"I know. I should have remembered that, too."

Silence fell between us. A comfortable one, despite the painful subjects we had been discussing. There was another such subject on my mind, but I was not certain how—or if—to broach it. _There has been too much silence_, I thought. "What of Branmer?"

She withdrew her hand and stared down at the table.

"You don't have to tell me," I said softly.

I watched her fingers curl around each other as she weighed whether or not to answer. I knew she and Branmer had begun the courting rituals before the war; I also knew, as did everyone else on Minbar, that Branmer had been so enraged by Dukhat's slaying, he changed castes in order to fight the humans. _My heart has become a warrior's heart,_ he had said, in a fiery public speech in Temple Square. _It cannot rest until Dukhat is avenged. I am no longer religious; I cannot pray, or study, or guide. I must fight, draw blood, see our enemies dead at our feet. From this day, I am warrior-born; how I will die is in the hands of the Universe._

"We are no longer courting," she said after awhile. "We had one night of watching, before…" She gripped her hands tight together. "He says he is not the same person… that he cannot know if I can love the man he has become. Or… or if there is room in his heart to love me any longer." A single tear fell on the table. "He says he will not know until the war is over. So he released me. I deserve better, he said." She brushed the tear away. "As if anyone could be."

I was around the table in a heartbeat, holding her as she had held me. She wept a little, then tried to smile as she struggled for composure. "You are blaming yourself for this, too. I know you, _shonamai_. Don't do it. You did not make this choice. Branmer did."

"But he would not have, if I—"

She pressed a finger to my lips. "He chose. As was his right. If you take responsibility for that, you take that right away from him."

Gently, I moved her hand. "I know that in my mind. But not in my heart."

"It will come," she said.

We held each other a little longer. Then Mayan reached for the teapot, and I let go and went back to my place. "I don't know what to do now. I must end the war before we slaughter them all. I cannot let us be guilty of destroying an entire race." _Even if we did not need them_, I thought, but didn't say it. What Dukhat and I had discovered, and what the Vorlons had said, about another Shadow War coming was not for Mayan's ears—and it was immaterial. Shadow War or not, potential allies or not, we had no right to decree the humans' destruction. Our crusade against them had long since gone beyond justified revenge, if it ever had been justified. _We should have talked to them_, I thought, with the familiar guilt of better than two Earth years. _We should have found out why they fired on us, instead of lashing out. Or we should have made contact when Dukhat wanted to, cycles and cycles ago._

Mayan looked troubled as she poured more tea. "If what we are doing is wrong… then there must be some way to stop it. Even if we cannot see it yet. The Universe would not let us commit such a crime and offer no pathway out of it. Somehow, that moment must come. The right choice must be possible. Otherwise, there is no choice at all."

She had voiced my own deepest fear. "What if…" I had to force myself to say it out loud. "What if there is no choice? Only error—and its consequences?"

She set the teapot down and stared at me. "You cannot believe that."

Once, I would have agreed. Now I was not so sure.

"There will be something," she said. The quiet conviction in her voice was a sturdy ship's deck beneath my feet, a sun-warmed rock to lean on. "You will know it when it happens."

"I wish I had your faith."

"You do. Just remember it, that's all."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: **Dialogue between Hedronn and Delenn in the first part of this chapter is taken from the novel IN THE BEGINNING. I wrote my own version of events on the _Valen'tha_ subsequent to Sinclair's capture; hope you enjoy.

**Part 11—Darkness and Dawn**

Mayan's faith in me proved justified, though it would be nearly another year before I knew it. And the chance almost came too late.

We had captured or destroyed many of their bases and colonies that lay in the path of our advance toward Earth. When we reached the outer planets of their primary system, the decision was made to bypass the fourth planet and strike directly at the humans' homeworld. The remaining planets where humans resided would not survive long without Earth; decimating their birthworld would make a fitting end to our holy war.

We came past Mars, with the _Valen'tha_ leading our fleet, and saw a wall of Earth vessels hovering in our path. Every ship they had left was arrayed against us—a pitiful defense, but they meant to make it nonetheless. Sick at heart, knowing I had run out of time to rectify my error, I could not help but admire the humans. What courage they had, to fight what they must know was a hopeless battle against a vastly more powerful foe. Their stubborn bravery shamed me. Here I was, giving way to despair in my own hopeless struggle… thus ensuring that it _would_ be hopeless. I would fail, and the humans would die, and the souls of all Minbari would be stained with their blood forever…

_No_, I thought, and then the deck of the _Valen'tha_ lurched under my feet in our opening battle maneuver. The forward batteries spat fire into the void. The Battle of the Line had begun.

The Earth ships—a few lumbering battlecruisers, the tiny Starfuries shaped like crossed sticks with a cockpit in the middle, and several clumsy vessels with jury-rigged guns that were clearly not military craft—threw themselves against our fleet. To no avail; we cut through them like a blade through fruit, their weapons fire mere pinpricks against our cruisers' hulls. Their small fighters were fast and maneuverable, but there were too few of them, and they proved no match for our sheer numbers. Within minutes, we had opened a gap in their wall large enough to permit me a clear view of their homeworld for the first time.

The sight sent a shudder through me. It should not have been familiar, yet it was. _A planet like a jewel amid a field of stars, blue and green beneath swirls of white cloud…_

I put out a hand, as if I could reach through the walls and touch it. Another memory surfaced from that long-ago Dreaming I had shared with Dukhat—the face of the alien man, with the light brown hair and piercing dark eyes. He was human. Dukhat had been right, the Vorlons were right. Humanity's destiny was entwined with ours. And we were killing them, down to the last man, woman and child.

_No more time,_ I thought frantically as I watched ship after Earth ship hurl itself into the fray. Most were blasted to fragments in seconds, yet they kept coming. They were so brave, and so doomed…

"They fight bravely," I said, with no more outward emotion than one might say, _it is a fine day, _or _be welcome in my home_. "They cannot harm our ships, but they continue to try."

Satai Hedronn, who stood nearest me, scowled. "They know they will die anyway. So really, is this bravery, or simple desperation?"

An odd note in his voice caught my ear. His words were arrogant, and unusually blunt—but underneath, I heard something else. A flat, deadened echo of lost hope.

_What had Hedronn been hoping for, that was now out of reach?_

A glimmer of an idea came to me. I did not know if it would work, but at this point anything was worth a try. And perhaps I was not completely bereft of allies… "Perhaps they are the same thing." I chose my next words carefully; if Hedronn agreed with them, the others would as well. And I needed them to agree, or all hope _was_ lost. "We should bring one of them aboard for questioning. If our next step is the final assault on their world, we must know their defenses."

I could tell nothing from Hedronn's dismissive reply. "Very well, Delenn. But choose quickly. We are fast running out of candidates."

He was right. My heart went cold as I surveyed the battlefield. Half the wall of Earth ships was gone, and many of the little Starfuries as well. The rest darted in and out amid other Earth vessels, Minbari ships and floating clouds of battle debris. Even as I watched, the _Valen'tha_'s guns caught two more, and they exploded in bright fire.

_I cannot choose,_ I thought desperately. _Valen, choose for me…_

My arm rose as if of its own volition, and I found myself pointing at a Starfury that was hurtling toward us. "That one." The pilot clearly meant to ram the _Valen'tha_, even though he was too far away to avoid warning us of his intent. It would be a simple thing to angle our guns and destroy him before he could reach us. He must have known it—and still he came, determined to cause our deaths with his own if he could.

Hedronn relayed the order. A tractor beam locked on to the fighter and pulled it aboard. We waited in the Council Chamber for the pilot to be brought to us—shackled and immobile, incapable of doing harm—so that we might witness the thorough scanning of his mind.

What the scans revealed shook us to our core… and, in the end, saved us all.

**ooOoo**

The human pilot said nothing at first—merely looked through us, as if refusing to acknowledge our existence. My first glimpse of him brought shock that I was hard pressed not to show. I did not know his name, had never laid eyes on him—yet I recognized that long-boned face, the light brown hair, the piercing dark eyes that would not react to our presence. This was the alien male from the Dreaming. I had seen his world, his smiling face—then both of them shattered by bolts of fire from a Minbari cruiser's guns.

I had seen, and failed to understand. And now here we were, with the fate of a people resting on whatever happened with this nameless human in the next few hours. Or minutes.

Satai Coplann—a warrior to his core—nodded toward the technician manning the neuro-scanning apparatus into which the human had been strapped. "Find out what their defenses are." Disinterested, willing to humor my desire for information, but fundamentally convinced that the Minbari armada could cut its way through whatever feeble resistance might remain once Earth's ragtag fleet was destroyed.

The technician passed his palm over a control rod. The pilot's body stiffened, and a grunt of pain escaped him. He was resisting the scan. I had not expected that. I felt my hands clench into fists, safely concealed by my long sleeves. My nails would leave marks, still visible hours later when next I looked.

The human closed his eyes and began to speak in a flat, toneless voice. "Jeffrey David Sinclair. Captain. Serial number 921-004. Jeffrey David Sinclair. Captain. Serial number 921-004. Jeffrey David Sinclair. Captain. Serial number 921-004…"

Coplann scowled. "What nonsense is this?"

I understood the humans' primary language by now well enough to answer him. "He is telling us his name and rank. And a number, though I am not sure what it means. Perhaps they keep track of their warriors this way."

The technician spoke. "He is using the words to block the scan. The repetition makes his mind difficult to control."

"Then override it." Coplann scowled at our captive. "Even now, you fight. I could almost admire that, if you weren't a barbarian."

_They are not barbarians_, I wanted to shout at him, _we were wrong_—but I didn't dare. We had learned nothing yet that I could use to change anyone's mind. _Fool_, I called myself, silently but savagely. _This will fail too, and then there will be nothing left but darkness and blood_… Sinclair was writhing now, jaw clenched and body taut. The more the scanner probed, the harder he fought it—and the more pain he suffered. A thin sheen had broken out on his face and hands.

"Let us see his thoughts," Hedronn said. The Council Chamber's holo-screen unfurled itself, and across its expanse we saw roiling clouds shot with flashes of lightning. The battle in Sinclair's mind, as he perceived it—a dry storm raging over a dusty, red, dome-dotted plain.

"More," Coplann said. "Break through."

The technician complied. Sinclair shuddered, and the lightning flared brighter. A harsh cry left his throat, and the holo-screen went white—

Then the blaze of light gave way to a surge of images. A brown-haired, dark-eyed woman laughing; a tall man, with Sinclair's face but eyes as blue as the Inland Sea, smiling down at a younger dark-eyed copy of himself; a little girl running to catch a ball on a dusty red stretch of ground with the curve of a dome glinting overhead. Scenes of childhood, family. Home. More images came: Sinclair in front of a mirror, admiring himself in the blue uniform of EarthForce. A Starfury, wheeling and dancing in the blackness of space near Earth's lone moon. The same ship from inside the cockpit, as its pilot dropped from a launch bay and soared outward toward a Minbari cruiser. Gloved hands tightening on the controls as laser fire split the blackness and cut down nearby Earth fighters, one by one by one.

"Bring out Earth's defenses," Coplann said to the technician.

He passed a slim hand over the rods once again. Sinclair struggled in his bonds, though it was no use. He was staring at the holo-screen, and the naked despair on his face made my eyes sting. He knew what we were doing to him, I realized as I blinked the tears back. And he knew he was helpless against it.

His eyes met mine, and he saw me. Truly saw me, as if for that moment we were not enemies on opposite sides of a deadly war, but merely one sentient being appealing to another. _Help me_, his eyes said. _Please_… For no sensible reason, I thought of my ancestress Shoshann. She had those same eyes, gazing at me across time from the ancient portrait I had found.

Then he shuddered again and seemed to pass out. I could not look at him any longer, so haggard and still where we had imprisoned him. Instead, I looked up at the holo-screen—and felt my mouth go dry.

The words left my lips before I knew I was going to say them. "Grandmother Mountain."

"What?" Hedronn, incredulous.

I stared at the image on the screen. I knew that slope, tapestried in silver-green and reddish-gold. I had grown up seeing the line of it every day against the morning and evening sky. "That is Grandmother Mountain, near Tuzanor. I am certain of it." My heart pounded against my ribcage. What I was seeing was impossible—and, perhaps, exactly what I was looking for. If only I knew what it meant, and how to use it…

"Don't be foolish." Coplann sounded annoyed now. "They have mountains on Earth, surely. You have mistaken some memory of this human's for—"

"I have _not_." I spoke more sharply than I intended, yet on a moment's reflection, I decided that might be a good thing. "Do you think I cannot recognize my home? I know it as I know my own soul." I addressed the technician, half sick at what I had to ask, yet all too aware of how necessary it was. "Probe this memory. Show us more."

"We need to know about Earth's defenses," Coplann snapped.

"No. We need to know if I am seeing what I am seeing. Or rather, you need to know. I am sure already." I nodded toward the technician, then snuck a glance at Sinclair. He appeared unconscious, a small mercy. At least I would not be tormenting him further.

The image of the mountain sharpened. Then we were closer, as if partway up the slope, moving downward with an easy walking rhythm. I knew the shape of the land, the colors along that stretch of it. Gold and red: the hues of the _hala_ bushes that bloomed there in high summer. Then, around a bend in the path, a tall, narrow rock shot through with veins of crystal came into view. A handspan at the top of it bent slightly toward the northeast, pointing toward a familiar spot—the place where Mir family stories said the ashes of Mirilenn had been scattered. "There!" I said. "That marker. Do mountains of Earth have memory stones for Minbari ancestors? Will you tell me this is so, Coplann—that I am still mistaken?"

He sounded as shaken as I felt. "This cannot be. There must be some error somewhere…"

"No, Delenn is right." The new voice, slightly reedy with age, was Jenimer's. The eldest of the Nine and a religious scholar of note, he was of the family Talan, and like me called Tuzanor's mountains home. "I know those mountains, and I have seen that marker. I walked that very path with your father, of beloved memory"—he nodded toward me—"many cycles ago. We were each tracing old family stories, and he showed it to me." He frowned at the holo-screen, bewildered. "But how can a human remember a place that belongs to Minbari? A place where no human ever was?"

"Unless…" Even to myself, I sounded faint and faraway. "…he _has_ been there…"

Coplann spoke again, all the harsher for his fright. "But we _know_ no human has ever—"

"Then he cannot have been human." A cold wind seemed to blow through me, like the outriders of a blizzard. _Nine days' storm_, I thought nonsensically, as other fragments of the only possible answer shot through my consciousness like whirling darts of windblown snow. Dukhat, talking one evening about the slowly ebbing Minbari birth rate: _It is as if there are fewer souls among us waiting to be reborn…_ _and we do not know why_. Hearing my father say to Draal, on the same subject one dark winter's night: _If our greatest souls are not returning, then where are they going?_ "He was there, though," I said slowly. "He walked that ground once—and knew it as his own."

Jenimer's eyes widened. "What are you saying, Satai Delenn?"

He had used my title to remind me of my place. My obligation, to speak truth and avoid error. But I was certain of my ground, and would speak the truth I saw. "Tell the fleet to stop firing. Tell them to stop _now_. We cannot kill any more of them. We are killing our own souls."

Uproar. Protest rose from four throats: Coplann and Shakat from the warrior caste, Varenn and Durlan from the worker caste. I glanced swiftly around at the rest. Jenimer was frowning again, puzzling it through; Morann had gone pale as ice. Codroni, the third of the religious caste, looked as though dawn had broken somewhere inside his psyche—and Hedronn… Hedronn had closed his eyes as if in silent prayer.

I raised my voice and called the bridge. "Cease fire. Relay this order to all ships, on the word of Satai Delenn."

Coplann rounded on me, eyes blazing. "You are no warrior, and you do not command the _Valen'tha_! You have no right—"

"'I am Grey'," I snapped back. "'I stand between the candle and the star!'" Then, a touch more softly: "They are not going anywhere, Satai Coplann. We have decimated their fleet, such as it was to begin with. If I am in error, there will be plenty of time to finish them off. But if I am _not_ in error…"

I left the rest unspoken. Better to let their imaginations fill in the unspeakable consequences. Minbari do not kill Minbari—that lesson had been ingrained in us for the past thousand years. No one had any wish to drag us back to the barbaric times before. But if this human, Sinclair, had been Minbari once, then…

"I agree with Delenn," Codroni said quietly. "Before we go any further, we must know."

"How?" It was Morann who spoke this time, still white-faced and drawn. "How are we to test this theory of yours, Delenn—that the human Sinclair carries a Minbari soul? How are we to know where this memory comes from, for that matter? What if it is your memory, and Sinclair took it from you? We know the Earthers have telepaths. He could be one."

"Of course." Coplann pounced on the idea, like a hunting cat on a baby gokk. "There is your explanation. There is nothing Minbari about the soul of this human; he is simply a mind-thief."

"If he were a telepath, the scanner would have registered that. And I would know in any case if he had tried to touch my mind. As would any of us." I paused, partly for effect and partly to work out what to say next. Many of them were halfway toward my view already; now I had to bring them a little further. "Let us follow this Minbari memory and see where it leads us. We may find out who he was, and why he was reborn human. Which, in turn, may tell us whether other humans are likewise Minbari reborn."

"This is foolish," Coplann muttered, but he gave a bare nod of assent.

I looked toward the technician, who had watched our debate with wide eyes. "Proceed."

Sinclair's face twitched, as if the scanner hurt him even in unconsciousness. _Forgive me_, I thought, and then wondered if I would ever have the chance to say it to him in person.

A new image coalesced on the screen. A view from a balcony, looking out over a city. Tuzanor, unmistakably—the buildings of blue-veined stone that glowed in the morning light, the tamed cataract that gave the city its power, the surrounding mountains that cradled it like a giant's hand. In the near distance, a half-built spire rose in the air. At the sight of it, someone gasped. Satai Varenn, of the worker caste Kinar clan.

"Valen's Tower," she murmured. "My twenty-times great grandmother helped design and build it, more than eight hundred cycles ago." One trembling hand rose to her lips. "How can this human, this… Sinclair… remember _that_?"

"This cannot be." Morann. So quiet, I could scarcely hear him. And desperate—the way someone sounds who knows he has erred terribly and would give anything to deny it.

The man on the balcony—through whose eyes we were seeing—laid a hand on the rail. The ring he wore caught my eye. I felt disoriented suddenly, as if the solid deck of the _Valen'tha_ had turned to vapor beneath my feet. _Two kneeling figures joining hands across a luminous oval stone_… I had seen drawings of that ring in the scrolls my father worked with—ancient and rare ones, known only to the most serious scholars of Valen. The Anla'shok wore a brooch of the same design, had done so since their creation in Valen's time...

I was moving before I knew it. I flung myself toward Sinclair and began working at his bonds. My hands were shaking, my fingers clumsy. "Call a healer," I told the technician. "Tell them to come _now_. He must be tended, cared for—"

"What are you doing?" Coplann shouted.

"What does it look like?" One wrist was half-free now. I glanced toward Codroni, who stood nearest. "Come and help me. Someone must take his weight, keep him from falling."

Grave-faced, he came forward. His strong arms slid under Sinclair's shoulders as I finished with one wrist and moved toward the other. After a moment, Varenn came over as well and started working on one bound foot.

"You're mad," Coplann said, but did not sound as if he believed it.

"Am I?" I glared at him. "You know what you saw. What we all saw. This man is _Valen_, Coplann. Valen reborn! He has Valen's memories. He wears Valen's ring, lost for nearly thirty generations. No one has worn it since Valen died. But if you must have one more test—" My gaze fell on the Staff of Valen, held loosely in Jenimer's hands. I nodded toward it. "There is a Triluminary. Bring it near him. Let us see what happens."

Coplann opened his mouth, then closed it again as Jenimer carefully removed the Triluminary from its place in the center of the staff. With solemn reverence, he walked forward and stood within a handspan of Sinclair's motionless body. Codroni laid Sinclair gently on the floor; then the three of us near him backed away, out of the Triluminary's range. Slowly, Jenimer raised it. As it passed close to Sinclair, the heart of the tiny triangle glowed with a fierce white light.

Wonder passed over Jenimer's face. His hand drifted down to his side. "In Valen's name," he breathed.

"Yes." I choked back anguish I could not yet afford to show. Sinclair's—Valen's—face was so still, so pale and drawn… "Exactly. May the Universe have mercy on us all."

**ooOoo**

The Battle of the Line is legend now: the outnumbered but determined last defenders of Earth, who by a miracle forced the surrender of the impregnable Minbari fleet. Or, in an alternate version, the last defense of humanity's birthworld that would have been doomed but for the inexplicable decision by the inscrutable Minbari foe to surrender at the point of victory. Neither version is wholly true or wholly false. Earth was saved by a miracle, and that miracle did force us to surrender. Yet our decision must have seemed inexplicable. It certainly was to many of our own people, especially in the warrior caste.

Sinclair revived briefly before the healer came—just long enough to lunge toward me, who happened to be nearest. He was unable to do more than pull down my hood before Varenn restrained him and he passed out again. We left him unconscious but resting in the infirmary until he had regained some strength, then put him back in his Starfury and let him go. His people would rescue him, now that we had stopped firing on them, and would learn what they could from him—which would be nothing. We had seen to that.

At Coplann's insistence, we captured and tested other surviving humans from the battle as well. Of the twenty we scanned with the Triluminary before he was satisfied, nine had Minbari memories. Nearly half. "We must end this war," I told him, and the rest of the Council. "We are destroying our own kindred. How can we justify this? How would Dukhat ever have wanted this?"

"It was you who said _no mercy_," Coplann growled.

"And I was wrong." I heard the tremor in my voice, but let it go. "If Dukhat taught me anything, it was to follow the truth wherever it led. We all know where this truth leads now. I am not ashamed to admit it. I am only ashamed we did not know it and stop the bloodshed sooner."

What we had learned of Sinclair shocked me as much as any. I had not expected it. I had not _expected_ anything. I had only hoped, desperately, to learn _something_ about humans that might let me persuade the rest of the Grey Council to stay our hand. To find that our greatest soul had migrated to a human body was far beyond any luck I could have wished for—painful though it was to acknowledge the implications of our misguided holy war. After the Triluminary confirmed his link to Valen, even the most ardent war supporters could not deny the evidence of their eyes. But as the price for their acquiescence, they extracted a major concession: that our people remain ignorant of the reason for our surrender. _They will not accept such a truth,_ they said_. It will cause chaos, should they learn we are kin to barbarian killers. _

I had misgivings—more silence, amounting to a lie of omission?—but did not voice them. The most important thing was to end the slaughter. Whatever price there was to be, I would pay it. Sinclair's secret would be known only at the highest levels of the religious caste, and among the Grey Council. Even the _shai alytin_, the highest-ranking warriors outside the Council, would not know it. As for Sinclair himself, we wiped his memory of all events related to his capture. They overruled me when I protested, and I had to concede their point. How could we conceal the truth from our own people if Sinclair revealed it to the humans?

And so our crusade ended, and the humans lived. For myself, the moment felt oddly hollow. I had finally made right my wrong, and yet I could not truly claim to have done so. How does one "make right" a quarter of a million dead? How atone for the lives lost—human and Minbari—in a conflict caused by my careless words? I could not do it, and yet I must. The Universe required it. Seeking guidance, I went home to Tuzanor and spent nine days fasting and praying at the temple there. When I came out, I felt weak and shaky and not quite substantial, but was no nearer an answer. The only thing that came to me was a recurring vision of something I had seen in that same Dreaming with Dukhat cycles ago—the long, thin, odd structure in space, colored blue and gunmetal grey. It hung near a huge, orange-tinted planet I belatedly recognized, and I realized it had to be a space station. But who had built it, and why had I seen it? More to the point, why was I seeing it now?

I had my answer a few days later, when Satai Hedronn met my shuttle upon my return to the _Valen'tha_. "We are to meet with the humans," he told me. "Envoys from the Earth Alliance government. In a city on their planet, called Geneva." He pronounced the word as though he could scarcely manage its alien sound. "They wish to discuss one of the treaty terms. Apparently, their President Santiago—" again, he spoke the strange syllables with difficulty— "wishes our aid in building a space station. A place for humans and other races to meet and trade and take each other's measure. So there cannot be any more misunderstandings that lead to bloodshed." He paused, with a thoughtful look. "It is not a bad idea, really. It may even work. Certainly there is no harm in trying. And we owe them something. We may as well begin with this."

He continued as we left the landing bay and began to walk down the corridor. "The Earthers have built these stations before, apparently. Four of them. All were destroyed. One of them actually vanished, from what I have heard. I am not sure whether to believe them fools or admire their persistence for trying again."

I felt a tingling across my skin. The ship's air seemed charged, as if a light-storm were developing. "Where will they build it?" I thought I knew, but I wanted to be sure.

"Near Fi'Tellanan," he said. "The humans call it Epsilon Three. They seem to have a fascination with numbers; there will be one in the name of the space station, too."

"What is the station's name?"

"Babylon Five."


	11. Chapter 11

**Part 12—Last, Best Hope**

The treaty discussions about the Babylon Project took place two months later, in Geneva at Earthdome. Seeing Earth from elsewhere than space for the first time was a revelation—though I did not get a chance to explore outside Earthdome. Anti-Minbari feeling understandably still ran high, and Earth's government was taking no chances on some violent incident setting the Minbari off again.

I was not originally supposed to be there. The Grey Council chose Hedronn to speak for Minbar, and he would handle all negotiations concerning Babylon Five. I could not explain to him why I felt the need to be present, and at first he opposed the idea. "I have a task in mind for you, Delenn, once Babylon Five is built." He sighed. "If it is built. The Earthers are apparently now squabbling among themselves as to which members of their worker caste will be given the privilege. How they get anything done… At any rate, for this task, you will need to be unknown to them. Or at least, unknown as Grey Council."

This smacked of deception and made me uncomfortable. "What task? Why?"

"We will need an ambassador," he said. "This station is meant to be a crossroads, a place where many peoples and their governments may meet as equals. As co-sponsors of the entire project, it will be expected—and most useful—for us to have an embassy there."

"But why me? The Council has any number of diplomats we can call on. The religious caste gladly provides a new crop of them every cycle. Why not choose one of them?"

He was silent for a moment. Then: "Because none of them with sufficient experience cares for the idea of living among humans. Primitive, emotional, impulsive… who wants to deal with that every day? You, at least, have studied them. That makes you more familiar with their ways than anyone else. And easier with them, perhaps."

He was holding something back. I could read it in the subtle tension of his shoulders. The question was whether to push—and how far.

I decided to be blunt. I could do that with Hedronn when it mattered. "And your other reason? May I know it?"

His lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "Dukhat was right about you… that neither you nor the truth speak only when it is convenient." Then he sobered. "We need you to watch over Sinclair. To be sure he does not remember—and if he should, to let us know of it."

"Sinclair will be aboard this station?"

He nodded. "We will ask for him to command it. He has sufficient rank in their warrior caste, and he is a hero in their eyes. The man who made the Minbari surrender, even if they have no idea why. I don't expect they will give us much trouble about his appointment."

I thought about it as we walked on. A simple enough assignment, and one I might have sought had it occurred to me. I was powerfully curious about Jeffrey Sinclair. I wanted to know him better, this human who carried Valen's soul. And who had his own reserves of courage and strength. Had that been what drew Valen toward him—that potential, in the being whose existence was scarcely forming? I remembered his piercing dark eyes, smiling from my vision in the Dreaming. Then hazy with pain from our mind-scans. Guilt swept through me. If I watched over him, perhaps a time would come when I might atone for that—even if I could never tell him why.

"I will do it," I said. "But I will also come with you to Geneva. They need not know who I am; I can serve as one of your aides. A translator, perhaps. I am quite fluent in their English now. More so than anyone else on your staff."

"True enough." He gave me an appraising look. "It shall be as you wish, then. We set course for Earth space in ten hours. It will take some time to get there; I suggest you spend it in study."

We had reached my quarters. He bowed and turned to leave me.

"Hedronn?"

He turned back. "Yes?"

"What if Sinclair does remember?"

His genial expression turned grave. "I do not know yet. We will speak of it later on."

**ooOoo**

We came into Geneva over what looked like a wide harbor, the sweep of water glittering blue in the sunlight. The mountains around the city were hazy with distance, their grey slopes covered with deep green except at their snow-capped peaks. The landscape reminded me of Tuzanor, and I felt a brief pang of homesickness. Then it passed, and we were settling down on the landing pad outside Earthdome. It was a vast compound, gracefully designed for all its stone bulk, comprising not only the halls of governance but residences and visitors' accommodations and shops and gardens. One could stay within its confines and never want for anything, except perhaps a change of scenery.

The talks went smoothly enough, though I found my translating skills often called upon. Hedronn was reasonably good at languages, but the subtleties of Earth idioms often escaped him. I had a knack for these, and as the humans talked in idioms among themselves quite a bit, it was useful to able to tell Hedronn later—in private—what they had said. He did not share my fascination with the humans' varied expressions, but the more I listened to their speech, the more I found myself enjoying it. For a language with relatively few grammatical modes or words with double and triple meanings, it was surprising how vivid and supple their English could be. (Later, on Babylon Five—first with Sinclair and then with John—I had cause to be thankful for my Geneva experience. There is nothing like playing with language to, as the humans say, "break the ice.")

Sinclair himself remained an enigma, much to my frustration. Despite our tampering with his memory, he was uneasy in the presence of Minbari, and it was hard to get close enough to him to even begin a conversation, let alone an acquaintance. There was a bit more trouble than Hedronn had predicted ensuring his appointment as Babylon Five's commander, but in the end we had our way. A work schedule was agreed upon, funding levels were set, and all seemed to be going perfectly. Except for my personal project of getting to know Sinclair as something other than a captive… or Valen reborn.

Three days before our scheduled departure, a particularly beautiful afternoon drew me out into the ornamental gardens near the conference hall where the talks were taking place. We habitually broke after mid-day for a light meal, but on this day I preferred a walk outside. The sun-bright air felt soft and warm, like high summer in Tuzanor. I wandered in the gardens for perhaps half an hour, marveling at the profusion of flowers and bushes and trees that dotted the wide sweep of green grass. I spied a small arbor, a delicate structure of pale wood with flowering vines climbing all around it. The blossoms were deep red and blazing orange. Drawn by the vivid colors, I went toward it.

A large tree grew just behind the arbor. It was easily four times the arbor's height, with abundant dark green leaves. I moved closer to it and peered upward. The branches looked sturdy. Idly, I found myself measuring the distance to the nearest one. I might reach it, if I tried…

The crunch of a footstep on the gravel path made me turn. Sinclair stood there, looking as startled as I felt. He must have been lost in thought, and not seen me at first. We stared at each other like a pair of mesmerized gokks. Then, with a bare nod of his head, he glanced away. "Ma'am. Sorry to disturb you."

It took me a moment to recognize the first word. _Ah, yes—an honorific they give to women they don't know_. He made as if to leave, and I found my voice. "You need not go. My thoughts were of nothing important. I am happy to be disturbed."

He held himself stiffly and would not look straight at me. "Still. I shouldn't bother you."

I did not want him to be so wary of me. "You are Sinclair," I said.

He looked at me then, as if surprised I knew his name. "Yes, ma'am. Captain Jeffrey Sinclair."

Clearly, he had no memory of who I was. That knowledge both reassured and saddened me. "I am Delenn."

Another brief nod, such as he had given me before… but I sensed a slight easing in him, or thought I did. I decided to take my encouragement where I found it. "Your city is lovely. It reminds me a little of my home."

He almost smiled. "Geneva's one of the prettiest spots on Earth, they say."

I looked around for inspiration to keep the conversation going. "It has been some while since I set foot on-world. My duties keep me aboard the _Valen'tha _for much of my time."

He tilted his head. "You miss being dirtside?"

The idiom made me pause, but I liked it. Short, sharp and vivid, like so many human expressions. "Often. What I miss most is feeling fresh air on my face, and seeing something besides bulkheads or stars." I gestured toward a nearby flowering plant, a fat bush with glossy leaves and huge, round blooms in bright magenta. "Like that. What sort of flower is it?"

"A peony," he said. "My sister grows them in her backyard. She loves being able to have lots of flowers. We grew up on Mars; she lives in Chicago now. That's a city on the North American continent."

We spent the next few minutes talking of plants—me asking about this blossom or that feathery-leafed bush, he answering to the best of his knowledge. Through it all, I watched his tension slowly ease. He still was not entirely comfortable with me, but we had made a start.

By now we had wandered back to the arbor and its towering companion. Sinclair looked up at the spot where dark green leaves met dazzling blue sky. "If I may ask… why were you looking at that tree?"

I felt myself smiling. "To see if I could climb it."

His eyebrows arched upward. A human expression of surprise, if I recalled correctly. "Begging your pardon, but you don't look like someone who climbs trees."

"And so I do not… now. But I was a child once."

His expression turned curious, as if the idea of a Minbari child had not occurred to him before. I nodded toward the tree. "I know one very like this at home. The colors are different—the bark is more reddish, the leaves a more silvery green. But it is tall, like this one, with curtains of leaves. One can hide in them easily if one wishes."

That curious look again—and, I thought, a flicker of warmth. "Did you wish to hide?"

"Sometimes."

There was a little silence. It felt oddly companionable.

"I sometimes wonder…" He trailed off, then started again. "This probably sounds strange coming from me, but… I sometimes wonder what your homeworld is like."

I looked at the tree. Its branches waved in the breeze. He had lived on my homeworld—or his soul had—yet in this incarnation, he recalled nothing of it. And I could never tell him. "Not so strange," I said finally. "Your people and mine were enemies when we should not have been. And now that we are enemies no longer… it is only natural to want to learn more of each other."

He was standing next to me now, so close I could have touched him. He gave me a crooked half-smile, tentative but genuine. "Yes. I suppose it is."

**ooOoo**

We left Geneva soon afterward, with the Babylon Project satisfactorily concluded and our choice of commander agreed to. The building of Babylon Five proceeded with remarkable rapidity; the humans were fully behind it, and soon forgot whatever worker-caste quarrels had marred its launch. We sent some designers from our own worker caste to aid in the development of the alien sectors, as we had wider dealings with many more alien races than the humans did. Some in the warrior caste grumbled about what they termed a waste of funds, and from a few there came a worrisome insistence that we owed the humans nothing—it was they who should recompense us for having started the war by firing on our vessels unprovoked—but our people largely backed the effort. Over time, the war had come to trouble many. The humans' dogged bravery in fighting on against impossible odds had impressed them, and they were glad to see some form of tangible recompense. Most Minbari assumed they would have little to do with humans directly, and were content it should be so. Let us make up for the war as we can, and then let humans and Minbari leave each other alone—this was the future they anticipated, and it suited them.

The Anla'shok were a different story. With Lennon's death, command of the shrunken Ranger force had fallen to none other than Rathenn, my cousin and friend from our days as acolytes aboard the _Valen'tha_. There was talk of him joining the Grey Council as well when Jenimer or Codroni retired. Had it been up to me, I could not have chosen better. Like Lennon before him, he understood the importance of the Anla'shok to the conflict that was coming. More important, he was willing to accept humans as recruits.

"I do not know that it will prove necessary," I told him, by private transmission from my quarters aboard the _Valen'tha_ one evening. "But Dukhat and the Vorlons believed the humans were vital to our struggle against the Shadows, and we know Minbari souls are being reborn as human beings. So it may be that before long, humans will serve alongside us as Rangers. The Anla'shok should be prepared for that possibility."

"Don't worry, Delenn." Rathenn could look amiable even when he was on the edge of anger, and now he was outright beaming. "We accept all castes and clans without trouble or rivalries. We will accept humans, too. It is just one more difference to take in stride—and my Rangers excel at that."

He was right, I thought as I signed off. If any group of Minbari could accept daily contact with strangers whose ways and manners were so different from ours, the Anla'shok could. Accepting and dealing with the unknown was their life's work. I turned away from the darkened viewscreen, satisfied, and heard a voice outside my door. "Delenn? May I enter?"

Hedronn. Distressed about something. My contentment fled. "Come," I said. He came in, and I was startled at the pallor in his face. "What is it? What's happened?"

"Nothing has happened," he said, and paced across the room. "Except that the rest of the Council has decided what you are to do if Sinclair regains his memory of… certain events."

The rest of the Council had decided? This was highly irregular, that I had not been involved in such a serious discussion—especially one that closely concerned me. I swallowed, my mouth gone dry. "And their decision is…?"

He stopped pacing abruptly. His robes swirled around his feet. He would not look at me, another bad sign. "If he remembers…" He moistened his lips. "If he remembers, you are to kill him."

I stood abruptly, shocked to the bone. "I did not hear you say that. I did _not_."

"Delenn." He spoke my name with a desperate edge. "Do you think I approve? Do you think I did not protest, for as long as I could?" He turned toward me; I saw it from the corner of my eye. "But they have a valid reason, distasteful though it may be. His secret must be kept, and—"

"His secret!" I spat the words as I rounded on him. "He carries Valen's soul, Hedronn! How can we take his life?" I was trembling with shock and anger. "If we were going to murder Valen's incarnation, we should have done it at the battle for Earth, and admitted to ourselves that _we_ are the destroyers! How can they—how can _you_—ask me to do this? How can anyone even think we should?"

"And what if our people learn the truth?" He spoke more softly than I, but with no less urgency. "What will that do to them? How much damage are you willing to inflict on our own, Delenn, for the sake of knowledge they are not ready to deal with?"

"What if I refuse? What if I tell you I will not harm Sinclair, no matter what happens?"

He stayed silent and looked at the floor.

I had my answer. I looked down at my own clasped hands. "I agree it is… a concern," I said, choosing my words with care. "But I do not like this solution."

"I don't, either." He shifted his weight as if restless. "Perhaps it will not be necessary."

"Let us hope."

"Well." He shifted his weight again. "Now you know."

I looked him in the eye. "I will do what I must. For the good of us all."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: **As I do not have access to Season 1 episodes, the dialogue between Delenn and Lennier when he first arrives is not verbatim from the script. Instead, I worked from the Lurker's Guide Synopsis, which includes partial quotes and summarizes the gist of what they said. I have invented actual lines for the characters as necessary.

**Part 13—New Beginnings**

Time flew by, and at length Babylon Five was completed. I took up my new posting, and my title of ambassador, with an enthusiasm I could not hide even from the sourest and most skeptical of my Grey Council colleagues. Sinclair, and humans in general, had come to interest me greatly. I looked forward to spending daily time among them.

I knew they might not easily accept me, and was prepared for a certain coldness—perhaps even hostility—until I proved myself. Treaties and agreements signed by governments are one thing; learning to regard a former enemy as an ally, let alone a friend, is far more difficult. I had only my sincerity to aid me, and my own determination to deal honestly with the humans I met whenever I could. That, and the passage of ten years by Earth's reckoning since the end of the war. Time and honesty would help me with many; for others, I could only wait and see.

I was glad to encounter less difficulty than I had feared. Most of my dealings were with the station command staff, and they took their tone from Commander Sinclair. He was friendly enough toward me, if cautious at first. The rest followed his lead, and I soon came to know and value them. Michael Garibaldi, the blunt-spoken head of security who loved ridiculous cartoons and was far kinder than he admitted; Dr. Stephen Franklin, thoughtful and observant, whose boundless compassion for his patients was matched only by his curiosity; and Susan Ivanova, Sinclair's executive officer, whose warrior caste-like toughness and reserve masked a wicked sense of humor and a deep capacity for love. Her friendship, once given, was given forever—and I have rarely known anyone braver or with a keener sense of justice.

I also received an aide, sent by the Grey Council when it became clear that our embassy would be busier than initially believed. Unexpected numbers of Minbari chose to make Babylon Five their home, at least for a few cycles—and many others passed through on brief visits, indulging in curiosity about humans and other non-Minbari that they would not have admitted to at home. On the station, they could live among fellow Minbari and also make contact with outworlders, as often or as rarely as they wished. As ambassador for our people, and the highest-ranking Minbari aboard Babylon Five, I was in high demand; nearly everyone wanted a few moments of my time for one concern or another. Coupled with the demands of interstellar diplomacy, the workload soon became overwhelming—and so the Council sent me Lennier.

I had read his dossier in the days before his arrival. His clan, the Chudomo, were part of the warrior caste until Valen led the Minbari to victory in the first Shadow War—a victory that so impressed the clan Elder, Fanshon, that he persuaded his entire clan to join the religious caste. They were known for scholarship in the sciences, and also as supremely practical administrators in a variety of fields. Lennier in particular was well spoken of by his teachers; he had spent the past several cycles completing his studies at the Chulan Monastery south of Yedor, and had expressed interest in a posting "where I may learn as much as possible." A commendable attitude—though it seemed to me Babylon Five might end up being more of a learning experience than he had bargained for.

I was not prepared for him to be so young, or so overawed by my mere presence when I met him in the main docking bay. Barely taller than I and reed-slender, he could not manage to look above my collarbone. _Was I ever so young and shy_, I wondered, and then recalled myself with Dukhat, in our early days together all those cycles ago. The memory made me wistful, and gave me an instinctive affection for the young man standing before me.

I bowed to him, and he returned the gesture—a highly respectful obeisance much deeper than mine. "Welcome, Lennier of the Third Fane of Chudomo," I said. "I am honored to accept your service."

It was hard to see his face properly with his head down, but I caught a glimmer of a smile. I had said no more than ordinary politeness required, yet clearly he was immensely pleased by it. "The honor is mine, Satai Delenn."

His use of my title brought me up short. I would need to explain my position here, without delay. First, though, there was a habit that needed breaking. "You can look up," I told him gently. "In truth, I prefer that you do."

He blinked, as if startled by the notion. "It is forbidden."

He was so like I had been—overawed by Dukhat, who deigned to take kind notice of a timid young woman. The words Dukhat had spoken then came to my lips: "I cannot have an aide who will not look up. You will be forever bumping into things."

He did meet my eyes then, with a puzzled expression as if trying to determine whether or not I was joking. "I am in earnest," I said. "There can be no disrespect in doing as you are asked."

"You are right, Satai," he said after a moment's thought, looking me in the eye as he spoke. "There cannot be."

He was adaptable, this new aide of mine—and he learned quickly. Excellent qualities both, especially for this place. Now to settle the other matter. "Come this way," I told him, and led him out of the docking bay.

He took an avid interest in his surroundings as we walked down the corridor toward the core shuttle that would take us to the ambassadorial wing in Green Sector. When we reached a quiet section of hallway, I glanced over at him. "You must not use my title here. On Babylon Five, I am Ambassador Delenn."

His startled gaze met mine. "But—" Abruptly, he glanced away. "I must tell you… I am not certain of my fitness for this posting. I have no experience with anything as yet; to be one day a mere student at Chulan and the next, assistant to a member of the Grey Council is… a great change. And perhaps not merited."

I could almost hear my own voice, hesitant as Lennier's was now, speaking to Draal about my posting to the _Valen'tha _at the Mir clanhold long ago: _Are they sure they want me_? "You were highly recommended by your teachers," I told him with a smile. "You will soon adjust. You can begin by promising not to mention the Grey Council again during your stay. No one here knows of my connection; no one must find out."

Now he looked positively shocked. "But—to deny the Council—!"

"I am denying nothing. But it would lead to certain questions I don't want to answer just now. You will not use my title 'Satai'—you will address me only as Delenn. Do you understand?"

That thoughtful look again. I was to see it many times over the next several years, though less often as he grew in understanding and confidence. And also as he grew to hide things from me, as a way of dealing with internal conflicts he could not resolve. "I confess, I do not… but it does not matter. Understanding is not required—only obedience."

Another habit to break, I thought, as I nodded my acceptance of his reply. For the moment, it was convenient—but the time was coming when I would need him to understand before he acted. And it was likely to arrive sooner than later.

**ooOoo**

Over that first year, all of us slowly grew to know each other better. Sinclair was a man of great courage—a warrior's warrior in many ways, and yet possessed of a flexible mind and a deep spirituality that would have made him at home in the religious caste. When I remarked upon this once, during an informal chat in the Zen garden aboard the station, he laughed and thanked me. "Blame the Jesuits," he said. "I spent some years at a Jesuit university, mostly learning how to argue. The Jesuits are a teaching order in the Catholic faith tradition. They're known for intellectual pursuits, and occasionally making people in power uncomfortable because they won't stop asking questions."

I thought of my uncle Callenn, far away on Minbar, who had always disapproved of me for doing the same thing. "Minbari have a saying—'Understanding is not required, only obedience.'"

He gave me a quizzical look. "Do you believe that?"

I took a moment before answering. "When one is in charge, it is certainly convenient. But often, I find I prefer questions. If I am to obey, I would rather know why… and if I am to _be_ obeyed, I would rather others knew why. That way, the burden of knowledge is shared."

"The burden of knowledge," he repeated, with a thoughtful expression. "That's one way of looking at it. Does that make you unusual among Minbari?"

I shrugged, a human gesture I had picked up. "I had not thought about it. I am myself, that is all."

He stopped by the little waterfall and gazed at it. "I envy you that confidence, Ambassador," he said quietly. "Some days, I'm not sure who I am at all."

**ooOoo**

That conversation came back to me many times, especially after Sinclair began to remember what happened to him at the Battle of the Line. Two men came aboard Babylon Five and kidnapped him; their intent was to prove he had betrayed humanity, and so they forced him to relive his capture and torment at Minbari hands. He escaped them, but was delirious with the drugs they had given him, and in his terrorized state saw Minbari enemies everywhere. I managed to persuade him to put down his gun. He recognized me from the _Valen'tha_, but also as his friend; he was therefore willing to trust me, despite my Minbari face. Later, after Dr. Franklin had undone the worst of the damage his kidnappers inflicted, Sinclair's memories mostly faded again. But not completely.

I did not intend to tell Hedronn, or anyone on the Grey Council. With regard to Sinclair and his memories, I had said only that I would do what was best for the good of us all—and that certainly did not include killing Sinclair, secret or no secret. I decided it also did not include relating the kidnapping incident. If they knew of it, they would keep closer watch on Sinclair and I both—and I had begun to suspect Sinclair would prove pivotal to certain things that were taking shape, that much of the Council either did not see or did not wish to acknowledge.

So when an envoy from the Council turned up at my quarters, with far more knowledge of the kidnapping and its results than he should have had, it was an unpleasant surprise. I persuaded him that, as Sinclair himself said, he still recalled nothing—that the neurological device his captors had used to re-create his missing memories had only a temporary effect. The envoy reminded me yet again of the Council's orders to dispose of Sinclair should he become inconvenient, and I yet again dodged acknowledgment. And I wondered how long it would be before Hedronn—or someone else—recognized what I was doing. Sinclair and I might well be on borrowed time.

Many other things occurred during that first year—some pleasant, others less so. Mayan accepted an offer to tour several cities on Earth, singing _tee'la_; she was by this time an accomplished composer, and had performed her works throughout the Minbari Federation. En route to Earth, she stopped over to see me on Babylon Five, and was attacked not five minutes' walk from my own door. They beat her, branded her and left her for dead—a small group of humans from something called the Home Guard, who hated not only Minbari but every non-human race, and chose Mayan to make their point. Thanks to Stephen Franklin, she lived—and in lucid moments between bouts of controlled fury, I reflected on a universe in which a human whose life I had spared at the height of the Earth-Minbari War should be instrumental years later in saving the life of the one person who meant the most to me.

Of the other human I had spared back then—the tall man with the flame-colored hair—I thought rarely. I did think of him, though. At odd moments, often in the twilight of meditation just before sleep. His face would appear in my mind, and each time I felt the subtle pull of that inexplicable familiarity. I thought once or twice of looking for him, but something always distracted me. The arrival of the soul hunter and his attempt on my life—from which Sinclair rescued me, at great risk to himself. Sinclair's kidnapping. My old friend Branmer's death, and the attempt by Alyt Neroon of the warrior caste to make of his body a spectacle designed to inflame fading passions over the war. (Branmer would have hated it—and it made me ill to think of the effect this parade must have had on Mayan. In the end, I saw to Branmer's cremation as he would have wanted, and made certain Mayan received his ashes to scatter amid the mountains around Tuzanor. He had loved them nearly as much as he loved her; they made a most fitting place for his remnants to rest.)

Then there was the unexpected arrival of my old teacher, Draal, who found a new lease on life when he agreed to become guardian of the mysterious Great Machine on Epsilon Three. And the brief reappearance of Babylon Four, which gave me another piece of the vast puzzle that connected the Shadow War of a thousand years ago to the one that was surely coming. And finally there came a summons from the Grey Council to the _Valen'tha_. There, in the Council Chamber, with all the pomp and ceremony in which the Nine could indulge when we wished, they offered me Dukhat's place as leader. Jenimer, who had served as a provisional leader of sorts for the past ten years, clearly expected me to take it—and Hedronn looked so satisfied, I was certain his hand was at least partly behind the offer. How he had gotten Coplann to agree, I could not imagine—but he had, and was obviously quite proud of the accomplishment.

They were shocked when I declined. Honor though it was, I could not accept. _My place is on Babylon Five, _I told them. _Events are unfolding that Valen's prophecies foretold, and Babylon Five is at the heart of them. As is Sinclair, who is Valen reborn._

They did not want to be reminded of that. Between those who resented Valen's choice to reincarnate as a human, and those who did not wish to face a second Shadow War, few on the Council were willing to contemplate what might be necessary. Rathenn was one, though as the newest of the Nine and leader of the Anla'shok they discounted him. Hedronn was another, but he was reluctant. In his heart, he did not want the truth to be what it was. And so he counseled patience, waiting to be absolutely sure.

_My father would have understood_, I thought, on my final night aboard the _Valen'tha._ He knew Valen's writings better than anyone. Perhaps that was why he had so bitterly opposed the war against the humans; he knew how vital they were to the survival of us all. I missed him fiercely as I tried to sleep that night. I might almost have given my soul to have him with me again, to talk to for as little as an hour.

I left the _Valen'tha_ the next day, with Hedronn's words of warning in my ears and a precious artifact—the Triluminary—in my hand. Of the two, I knew which to heed more. "You must agree to wait, Delenn," he had told me, before relinquishing the Triluminary. "Wait until the Council gives you word. What you propose is dangerous on many levels—we cannot risk it until we are certain. Will you wait?"

Such a straightforward question was unlike him. He had learned from my evasion about Sinclair—and, perhaps, was annoyed that I had wasted all his politicking on my behalf over the Council leadership. For a long moment, I could not even look at him. I thought through my options, and in the end realized I had only one. That he was giving me the Triluminary meant he knew it, too.

I bowed my head and for the first time in my life told a plain, unvarnished lie. "I will." And I reminded myself, as guilt engulfed me, that it was no dishonor to lie if it was needed to save a life. Billions of lives in this case, if what I feared proved true. To save so many, I would brave dishonor, disgrace, even the death of the soul.

He gave me the Triluminary. And I went back to Babylon Five, to Sinclair and my loyal aide Lennier, and the others among the humans whom I had begun to call friends. And I waited for the next act to begin.

During this same time, I regularly spoke with the Vorlon ambassador to Babylon Five. The Vorlons—_Tenansai_, Golden Ones, in the ancient language of Minbar—had been our allies against the Shadows a thousand years ago, and had guided us as a people both before and since. They prized order, as did we; contemplation, consideration, control were their watchwords. When they moved, they moved slowly, and they laid plans that often took centuries or longer to execute. Ambassador Kosh was typical of them in many ways, though not so in others. He took a personal interest in we younger races, and though his utterances were frequently as cryptic as any Vorlon's, he went to greater lengths than most to help us understand.

From him I learned much that had been unclear before. I wanted to tell Sinclair; as Valen reborn, clearly he would once again play a pivotal role against the Shadows. Yet when I suggested as much to Kosh, he demurred. "The chosen is not yet," he said, in that shimmering Vorlon voice, and I could get nothing else out of him.

Upon my return from Minbari space, I showed Kosh the Triluminary. He was silent for so long that I thought myself dismissed. As I turned to leave his quarters, he spoke. "It begins."

I knew what he meant, and felt cold. The Triluminary—an ancient artifact from Valen's time—was the last component of a device known as the Chrysalis. At Kosh's behest, I had been building it piece by piece in my quarters over the past few months. Once completed, it would, in the words of prophecy, "create a living bridge between two peoples at bitter war, that both may know they are kindred and join together against the darkness." How this was to occur, prophecy did not say. Only that a person was required, to enter the Chrysalis and eventually emerge… changed. From what few details were given about the one whose role this was, I had begun to suspect it might be me. And I was terrified.

"Will I know when?" I managed to say, when I had made my heart stop pounding.

"Yes."

"How?"

He was silent again for a time. My nerves were stretched so taut, I wanted to scream. Through force of will I made no sound. Then Kosh said: "One will come. You will know."

"How will I know?"

He gave no further answer, only turned away.

Ten days later, a dark, sleek, too-smiling human named Morden came to my quarters and asked me a question. A question I recognized, was waiting for and dreading.

_What do you want?_


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: **Certain dialogue in this chapter is taken from the series via the Lurker's Guide synopsis of "Chrysalis". Gapfiller dialogue is my own. I have always wondered why Delenn felt the need to see Kosh "in the flesh," so to speak, before agreeing to go into the Chrysalis. This chapter attempts to answer that question.

**Part 14—The Coming of Shadows**

Morden's arrival, with his unseen Shadow "associates," was the catalyst for what followed. We could not reveal that we recognized him for what he was, of course. That might have prompted the Shadows to move too quickly. Kosh seemed convinced that the Shadows were not yet ready for confrontation, any more than we were. They had sent Morden as a feint, both to prepare the ground for their next efforts and to determine how much we knew. It was hard not to betray my revulsion toward Morden and those that accompanied him. I could feel them, like fingernails scraping across my nerves. After they left my quarters, I was close to being physically sick—partly from their presence, partly from fear. I knew what was coming now. The only question was how soon.

Or so I told myself. But within a day, I began to doubt. Was I really the one intended to do this? I was only Delenn. Not Valen, or Dukhat, or any great soul reborn. A scholar's child from the mountains of Tuzanor, with a tendency to ask awkward questions and speak up at inconvenient times. How did this fit me for a hero's destiny? If destiny it was. I did not doubt the prophecies, or that a second Shadow War was coming. What I doubted was my role in it. Had I understood the prophecies correctly? Understood Kosh correctly? Or the two Vorlons Dukhat had secretly invited aboard the _Valen'tha_, not long before his death. I did not even know if Kosh had been one of them; hidden in his encounter suit, he could be any Vorlon.

They had talked of the future, those Vorlons—named humans as _Isil'zha_. I remembered the flame-haired soldier whose life I had saved, and wondered if he had any idea what he was saying when he shouted out that word. It was a strange thought, but I wished I could ask him.

If I could know that I was not wrong… if I could know _something_ for certain. Even just whether Ambassador Kosh had been one of the Vorlons on the _Valen'tha_. The gentler of them had tried to guide me through the maelstrom of the war… tried to give me some hope of making peace when all my hope was lost. Was that Kosh? And was he guiding me again now?

I had promised him I would do what was necessary. But I had to know. I also had to know if the Shadows truly had returned to Z'ha'dum. Kosh could tell me—if he would. So on the last day of the Earth year 2258, while the humans on-station prepared for their customary year-end celebrations, I sent Lennier to Ambassador Kosh with a question: "Have the Shadows returned to Z'ha'dum?"

"'Have the Shadows returned to Z'ha'dum'," Lennier repeated, with great care. I felt a rush of affection for him. He had grown so much since his arrival on Babylon Five, when he could not even look at me, and I had joked that I could not have an aide who would not look up…

I nodded at him. "Be sure to use those exact words."

He bowed in acknowledgment and turned to leave. At the door, he turned back. "Is—" He caught himself. "No. Understanding is not required. Only obedience."

"You may ask if you wish," I said gently.

He hovered on the edge of speaking, then took the plunge. "Is the darkness you spoke of closer now? And—your task in all this?"

I could give him no less than an honest answer. "Yes."

He bit his lip. "I wish…"

"What?" When he did not reply, I pressed him a little. "What, Lennier?"

"I wish there were… an alternative," he said, as if every word cost him.

My own reply was quiet. "So do I. Believe me… so do I."

**ooOoo**

It was not the thought of becoming more human that troubled me. Over the past year I had grown to like humans very much, though I rarely thought this without an accompanying pang of regret for what we had done to them. What troubled my thoughts by day and kept me awake at night were doubts I could not shake. About myself—that I truly was the right person, in the right place, at the right time. _Wait_, Hedronn had said when he gave me the Triluminary_. Let prophecy tend to itself_. What if he were right? What if my growing conviction that time was short, that action must be taken before it was too late—was merely my own presumption, and not prophecy at all? What if I simply wanted to be like Valen—a hero praised down the ages, my name remembered and blessed for all time to come?

So I sent Lennier to Kosh with my question, and waited for the answer.

Meanwhile, things were in more than the usual state of confusion aboard Babylon Five. Ambassador G'Kar of the Narn and his Centauri counterpart, Ambassador Londo Mollari, were squabbling viciously over Quadrant 37, an area between Narn and Centauri space that the Narns insisted was theirs and the Centauri insisted was neutral ground. Meaning, Centauri warships could enter it whenever they liked, and the Narns could do nothing about it. The bitter enmity between those two peoples was embodied in their representatives, and it was the rare Advisory Council meeting when Londo and G'Kar were not feuding. It did not help matters that Mollari did nearly everything to flamboyant excess, from his towering hair crest and ornate garments to his bombastic way of speaking, while G'Kar prided himself on a warrior's austerity and reserve—or that Mollari combined his clownish exterior with a shrewd grasp of others' weaknesses, including G'Kar's prickly temper that made him take offense at the slightest hint of insult. Mollari enjoyed baiting him, and G'Kar rarely failed to rise to it. Given the Narns' brutal experience at the hands of their onetime Centauri overlords, this was not surprising—but it made council meetings highly uncomfortable, and despite my sympathy for G'Kar, there were times when I might have pitched both of them out a window had we not been floating in the vacuum of space.

I knew Mr. Morden had approached each of them, and that knowledge made me nervous. What had they said when asked _what do you want_… and how might the Shadows twist those answers to launch the wave of destruction they sought? Was it possible we had run out of time already?

It came as a relief when Lennier returned from Ambassador Kosh's quarters. I was putting the last pieces of the structure for the Chrysalis in place, and made myself continue with outward calm while Lennier spoke. He was afraid for me; I did not wish to add to his distress by seeming to lack confidence.

"Did you relay my question precisely?" I asked him. "Word for word?"

He nodded.

"His reaction…?"

"Just one word. 'Yes.'"

I couldn't breathe for a moment or two. Then, suddenly, it seemed vital to hurry. "Wait for me," I told Lennier, then hurried from the room.

**ooOoo**

I found Kosh in his quarters when I arrived there, breathless and tense. He tilted his helmet, but said nothing—merely waited.

"I have come, as I said I would," I told him, once I had steadied my breathing. I did not feel at all steady, but he could remedy that if he chose. There was no time for subtlety, and just now I lacked the patience for it. I spoke my heart to him, as clearly as I knew how. "Kosh, I have great doubts. I must know if it's true… I must see with my own eyes."

He stood motionless for several seconds, and I had the sense he was considering my proposal. Then he bowed his head. Slowly, the helmet began to separate from the rest of his encounter suit.

The room grew brighter, so bright it hurt my eyes. I squinted, forcing myself not to look away. The brilliant, glowing gold that washed through the room was familiar, I realized slowly. I had seen it before. In Dukhat's secret place, aboard the _Valen'tha_.

Relief flooded through me, almost painful in its intensity. Kosh was fully out of his encounter suit now, enough for me to recognize him. He had dimmed his light a fraction; I no longer had to squint or shield my gaze, could look openly at him in the fullness of wonder. "Yes," I breathed. "Thank you. Now I will keep the promise. Goodbye. You will not see me again as I am now." I bowed deeply to him—in respect, but also from love—and left the room.

The wonder stayed with me all the way back to Green Sector, where I left instructions with Lennier and picked up the Triluminary. Then I went to find Sinclair. As Kosh had kept his word, so I would keep mine. But first there were secrets to be told.

**ooOoo**

I found Sinclair in his quarters, looking harried and tired. No time to waste words. I greeted him and held up the Triluminary. "I believe you recognize this."

He did—and I could see he remembered the moment on the _Valen'tha _when, freed from his restraints, he flung back my hood and saw my face. "You remember what happened at the Battle of the Line, don't you? You remember being taken aboard our ship?"

"A little of it." Guarded. "Not much, though."

His wariness hurt, and I found myself responding more formally than I had meant. "I suspected as much. We have a lot to discuss, Commander. By coming to you, I am putting both our lives at risk. But there are things you should know."

He looked even wearier, if that were possible. "It's a bad time, Ambassador. Mr. Garibaldi's gone missing. I need to find him."

This was dismaying news. I liked Mr. Garibaldi. He had an odd sense of humor and enjoyed appearing cynical, but he was fiercely loyal and also deeply kind. I especially valued his friendliness toward Lennier, whose eager assistance he had welcomed in the building of a motorcycle—a machine of apparently enormous emotional significance to human males. I hoped nothing had happened to him. At the moment, though, Sinclair was my focus. "I understand," I said. "Come to my quarters, and I'll tell you as much as I can. But don't wait too long, Commander. Certain things have been set in motion, and I do not have much time."

**ooOoo**

I waited as long as I could, but once the machine was ready, I knew I must be also. "Are you sure there is no other way?" Lennier asked.

I set the final piece in place. All that remained was the Triluminary. Now that the moment had come, my doubts and fears subsided. They were still there, but over them lay an unnatural calm, like a bandage over a wound. "What must happen, will happen. Valen said this day would come. Who are we to stand in the way of prophecy?"

He could not quite hide a tremor in his voice. "What will happen if you are wrong?"

I thought of Hedronn. He and the Council would be furious that I had defied them. I would not long escape their wrath for doing this. If I survived the procedure. If not…

_If not, I will see Dukhat again. And my father, in the place where no shadows fall._

I managed a smile for him. "Then speak well of me when I am gone."

I set the Triluminary in place. The structure began to glow. Fragments of a pale, filmy substance drifted through the air. The fibers of the Chrysalis. They came from the structure and clung to it, slowly building up layer by layer. I watched, mesmerized, waiting for the sound of Sinclair at the door.

No one came. Slowly, piece by piece, I stripped off my clothing, while Lennier lit ritual candles and chanted softly in the background. The air chilled my skin; I willed myself not to shiver. _I must not be afraid…_

The final words of the chant died away. I breathed a prayer to Valen and entered the Chrysalis.


	14. Chapter 14

**Part 15—Transformations**

_Dark. Floating. WhereamI?_

No answer to that question. Except _I am here_.

Breathing came slowly, as if in sleep. I drifted, aware of things that normally stayed below consciousness. The slow rhythm of my heartbeat. The pulse of blood through arteries and veins. My lungs, expanding and contracting. The air moving in and out of them sounded like the dull roar of tides by the Inland Sea. I had been there once, eons ago…

In my mind, I saw bright colors. A heartbeat, and I stood by the shore holding a rainbow crawler. I felt the tiny creature dragging itself, fingertip-length by fingertip-length, across my little-girl hand…

Something _was_ tickling my skin. A distant warmth. Soon, it grew stronger. Warmer. Lapping at me, like tiny waves. Then hot, licking at my skin. Flames licking wood and starting to catch.

I tried to move away. My body would not obey me. The heat intensified. With it came pressure, sudden and heavy. I fought for breath, fought to move. The pressure grew. Things started turning, twisting, _wrenching_ inside out…

I tried to scream. _Too much pressure, can't breathe, can'tbreathecan'tbreathe—_

_I am dying_...

It was my last coherent thought for some time.

**ooOoo**

Consciousness returned slowly. My skin felt stretched, as if it could no longer contain what was inside it. My vision was blurred, hazy. Not that there was much to see. Only the wall of the Chrysalis, a dull blue-grey.

The air inside was close and stale. It was hard to get enough. I tried to call out, but managed only a faint croak. Then I tried to move. My muscles twitched, but otherwise did not respond.

The blue-grey seemed to close in on me. Sudden terror lent me strength. I managed to raise one arm and struck hard at the wall of the Chrysalis.

Something cracked. A bone? My odd, tight, alien-feeling skin? Another blow, fueled by fear. Another. More cracking. Then a glimmer of light, distant but real.

Slowly, each movement sounding a new note of pain, I pulled myself toward it.

**ooOoo**

Some time later, I found myself on the floor. Outside the Chrysalis. Taking deep, full breaths for the first time in days. I ached all over, as if from a beating with a hundred denn'boks; I still couldn't see properly, my tight skin itched and burned, and I was shivering as if I had spent an hour buried in a snowbank—but I was alive. It was a beginning.

My throat felt parched. I would have given every childhood memory I possessed for just one sip of water. "Lennier," I called out, or tried to. My voice was unrecognizable—harsh, grating. What had happened to me? What had the Chrysalis done?

Lennier did not come. After a time I managed to lift my head enough to see the indistinct shape of the little sofa in my sitting-room. It would be softer to lie on than the floor, and warmer. I dragged myself toward it, inch by inch. _I am a rainbow crawler_, I thought, and started to laugh. The sound spiraled into hysteria, but I couldn't stop. Finally, gasping, I reached the sofa. Getting there had drained me; I leaned against it, too exhausted to do anything but breathe.

Someone—Lennier, surely—had left a grey robe across one end. Trembling, I shrugged into it. The effort sapped my remaining strength. I huddled there, shaking with cold and fatigue, and waited. Lennier would come soon. He would find me. He would help me.

An eternity later, the door cycled open. I heard Lennier's step, his startled cry at the sight of the broken Chrysalis. I called his name. It came out as a mangled whisper, but it was enough. He hurried toward me with a rustle of silk, pulled me upright, cradled me against him. He was blessedly warm, and I clung to him. "I am sorry, _satai_," he murmured. "I did not expect your emergence yet… Are you all right? Do you need anything…?"

I managed to say _water_, and he fetched me some. I reached out to take it and froze in sudden horror.

My skin was blackened. Charred and fissured, like the scorched remnant of a funeral pyre. I reached up and touched my face. And felt the same texture there, hard and rough as cracked stone.

"I will get Doctor Franklin." Despite his best efforts, Lennier's voice shook.

I gripped his hand hard enough to leave bruises, terrified at the thought of him leaving me alone. Words came from nowhere: "_What am I_?"

It took several seconds to realize that the anguished question was my own.

**ooOoo**

Lennier was right to call Dr. Franklin. We soon discovered that I was not a monster, or damaged, or deformed. The dark, scaly coating that I had mistaken for skin was a residue of some kind, likely left by the process of cellular transformation that the Chrysalis had wrought. Underneath it was my real skin, thin and smooth and soft.

And pink. More accurately, the pale pinkish-white of humans from the northerly climes of their planet. The Chrysalis had worked perfectly; I now looked like, and was, a blend of Minbari and human. The living bridge of prophecy, indeed.

My hair was a revelation. Dark brown and soft as silk, it fell past my shoulders in a gleaming mass. I could not resist playing with it as I stood before a mirror in my quarters, fascinated with my new appearance. Lift one shining lock, let go, watch it fall gracefully back into place. Repeat over and over. The light played on it as if it were polished wood. An unexpected beauty. I had lost a good part of my bone crest to make room for it, but the sensitive nerves in the rim were intact, and I found I could not regret what was gone. My ancestress Shoshann came to mind—the image I had seen of her some years ago, depicted very much as I looked now. Had she been through the Chrysalis also? The old tales did not say so, but many of them had been lost.

I felt cooler as well—humans, it seemed, had lower body temperatures than Minbari. "You'll want to turn up the heat in here a bit," Dr. Franklin told me, once my panic was over and we could discuss such practical things. He also advised me to adapt my cleansing room for a water shower, and to use human-style gels and soaps. Apparently, human skin was quite delicate compared to ours; Minbari chemical peels would damage it before long.

I examined my face in the mirror, trying to pinpoint the changes. My brow ridge had shrunk, and my ears were much higher up. And larger. I was not sure how I felt about that. My eyes were the same, which was comforting. My new appearance would take some time to get used to. Overall, though, I was pleased. I had been so concerned with whether I should do this, and then whether I would survive it, that I had given no thought to what I would look like afterward. Now, I could afford that luxury. White silk robe, dark hair, pink-tinted skin, grey-green eyes. Cheekbones and nose and jaw line delicately drawn, the same and yet not the same. I looked… exotic. What would the humans think when they saw me? Ivanova, Garibaldi, Sinclair—

Sinclair. He was on Minbar now, formally installed as Earth's first ambassador… and informally, taking up a far different task. I had meant to tell him of it before entering the Chrysalis. I had meant to tell him a great deal. Instead, circumstances forced me to leave detailed instructions with Lennier, and trust Rathenn to do the rest upon Sinclair's arrival. He would have been there… I was not sure how long by now. I had been in the Chrysalis for days, cut off from everything and everyone. How was Sinclair faring on Minbar? Had he ever found Mr. Garibaldi? I didn't know. I didn't know anything that had happened since Sinclair and I last spoke. I didn't even know who his replacement was as commander of Babylon Five.

Lennier's response to my questions was sobering, to say the least. He had not yet heard from Rathenn about Sinclair, or about the Grey Council's reaction to his appearance on Minbar. Mr. Garibaldi had been found—near death, in a disused corridor somewhere in Grey Sector, shot in the back by an unknown assailant. He had survived, barely, and had only recently wakened from a prolonged coma. The Earth Alliance President, Luis Santiago, had died when his starship exploded near one of Jupiter's moons—and rumors were rampant around the station that it was no accident, though no one had any proof. Finally, Santiago's successor—his vice-president, Morgan Clark—had appointed the one man to command Babylon Five that had already raised hackles among the Minbari.

"Sheridan Starkiller," Lennier said, his gaze aimed at the floor.

This was not good news. Or so I thought. I did not recall Morgan Clark from Geneva; he had become vice-president subsequent to our talks there. The Grey Council, however, made it a point to keep up with who was who among Earth's political leaders—and Clark had an unsavory reputation. A narrow thinker, inflexible, deeply ambitious… and he disliked non-humans, apparently on principle. There were even rumors of connections to the Home Guard, though our intelligence-gatherers had been unable to substantiate them. And to more sinister powers, though these remained unnamed. All we knew of them was their wealth, their penchant for secrecy, and their commitment to scouring "alien influences" from anywhere humans lived… or might wish to live in the future. That such a man was now the Earth Alliance President, and that he had appointed Starkiller to run Babylon Five, seemed grim omens.

So lost in thought was I, it took me a moment to realize Lennier was still speaking. "…went to him anyway, as you directed," he said. "And… he was not what I expected. Not at all."

"You told him? About the migration of souls, and why we surrendered at the Battle of the Line?"

"Yes." He looked thoughtful. "He was… respectful of what I said. I could tell he did not believe it himself, but he was willing to accept that I do. And he did not dismiss the idea outright; his disbelief seemed more because the concept was unfamiliar, rather than because he found it outlandish or impossible. He…" Lennier faltered, with a puzzled look on his face. "He wanted to know how he could help. It was almost the first thing he asked. I had not expected that of Sheridan Starkiller."

Nor would I have. Had we misjudged him, as we had misjudged humans in general? More to the point, had Clark misjudged him—installed him here in the firm belief that Starkiller shared his distrust of nonhumans, when in fact that was not true?

I found myself playing with my hair, sliding a hand beneath it where it lay against my neck. The weight and softness of it were pure pleasure; they soothed my roiling thoughts. It was useless to speculate, I told myself. Sheridan Starkiller was here, he was the station commander, and I would have to deal with him. "When is the next meeting of the Advisory Council?"

"Tomorrow morning," Lennier said. He was excellent with details like that; he kept them all in his head, and rarely had to look anything up. "Ten-hundred hours, station time."

"Good." I turned away from the mirror. "Then tomorrow morning at ten-hundred hours, we will go and take Sheridan's measure."

**ooOoo**

I heard the council meeting in progress before we arrived, a quarter of an hour after it started. I still was not used to the demands of my changed body, and had overslept. Which might be a good thing, I had reasoned over a hasty breakfast. Being somewhat late would allow me to, as the humans said, "make an entrance"—which, in turn, would reinforce the official explanation for why I had become what I was. As for the whole truth, that would have to wait until the time was right.

G'Kar's voice echoed down the corridor as we neared the council room. Then his aide spoke, and I caught the word _Z'ha'dum_. I slowed my pace, listening. The Narns had sent a ship there, to investigate, and the vessel had been destroyed. "But that couldn't happen, unless…" G'Kar was saying, "…unless they knew the ship was coming and were waiting for it. But no one knew, except…"

There was a long pause. I could guess what was happening in it. G'Kar was surely looking at Londo Mollari. The Narns had been hard done by while the Centauri ruled them, and G'Kar never let anyone forget it. He often had justice on his side, though, and I wished I could like him better. I would need to speak to him about this expedition of his—carefully, so as not to give anything away.

We were outside the doorway of the meeting room now. Lennier glanced toward me; I nodded, and he went through. I moved to follow, then halted. I suddenly felt nervous, which made no sense. I had been here countless times, my place was waiting, the others were doubtless expecting me after such a long absence—

The others. How would they react when they saw me? What would Starkiller—no, _Captain Sheridan_—think of a Minbari ambassador with a human face? Would he understand what I was trying to do? Or would he think me an oddity, a freak? Perhaps even take offense, where I meant the opposite?

I clasped my hands inside my long sleeves, then let go and walked into the council room. Rarely had I felt so grateful for the concealment of my hooded robe. The utter silence, save for my own footsteps, conjured memories of my first time in front of the Grey Council aboard the _Valen'tha_, when I was a simple acolyte chosen by Dukhat to make a point. But I could not think of Dukhat now. Not when I was about to present myself as a living bridge between Minbari and humans, meant to ensure peace and friendship between us. Thoughts of the war and old grief had no place at such a moment.

Lennier finished speaking his piece. The pride and affection so clear in his voice gave me courage. I raised my hands, took down my hood, and met the eyes of Captain John Sheridan.

I knew him in an instant. Shock held me speechless; I bowed my head to buy time to find my voice. Sheridan was the flame-haired EarthForce soldier I had saved, in the wake of the failed peace mission all those years ago. The one who had said _isil-zha,_ "the future," was in Dukhat's secret place, using a word no human should have known. The one who felt so disturbingly familiar, even though I had never seen him before. This man, who stood before me now—he was still familiar, from more than our brief encounter on the _Valen'tha_. Something in me reached out to him, though I could not then have said what or why.

When I looked back up, he was smiling at me. Not the practiced smile of the diplomat, but an expression of unreserved delight that seemed to brighten the room. I could not help but respond. The words I had rehearsed for this moment came out with real warmth, because I meant them with all my heart. I spoke first of Sinclair, living on Minbar now as an act of good faith. Then of my own change: "…so that I may become a bridge between our worlds, in the hope that we will never know war between us again." It felt strangely difficult not to tell him the rest—but the time for that had not yet come.

Another small silence fell. Londo and G'Kar were gaping at me, but I ignored them. The only one I felt like looking at was Sheridan. The admiration in his eyes made my fears from moments ago in the hallway melt like the last snows of winter.

"Welcome back, Ambassador," he said, and pulled out my chair in a gesture I recognized as a courtesy among humans. "It's a pleasure to have you with us again."

He sounded as if he meant it. He had a pleasant voice, I thought as I bowed again and took my seat. Low-pitched and clear; I wondered if he sang. Perhaps I would ask him, when we knew each other better…

It surprised me, how much I looked forward to that.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: **The story John tells during the dinner scene is a gapfiller for what we saw onscreen ("A Race Through Dark Places"). The final scene between Delenn and Hedronn occurred in "Acts of Sacrifice"; dialogue is taken verbatim from that episode, but the subtext is my own.

**Part 16—Consequences**

That council meeting was one of the last pleasant surprises I would have for some time. Others came all too quickly. They began with the other Minbari on-station, whose requests for my time—to petition for favors, to ask for aid—became suddenly and markedly less frequent. At first I put it down to courtesy—a desire to spare me work in the mistaken belief that I needed more recovery time. Then, I thought perhaps Lennier was being over-protective. When I gently chided him for taking on more work than was good for him, he blushed outright and stared at his feet—an extreme reaction even a child should have been able to control. "I wished to help," he said softly. "I would take nothing from you that is yours, Satai."

Briefly, I laid a hand on his shoulder. "I know that. I am not offended. But it is not necessary. I am quite recovered now, and able to resume all my duties."

He glanced up, and the agonized expression I read there gave me pause. _What in Valen's name…_? "I would take nothing from you that is yours," he repeated. Slight, very slight, emphasis on the "I".

Cold apprehension slid along my spine. "The others," I managed to say, all the while thinking, _I should have expected this…_ "They are… doubtful of me. They prefer to keep their distance."

He swallowed. "They do not understand."

"Well, then." For his sake, I forced a smile. "We shall have to change that."

**ooOoo**

When the station Minbari sent a delegate to me, demanding to know if was still truly one of them and to speak with the Grey Council on the subject, I was at least forewarned enough to give no hint of how much it hurt. Or how afraid I was. I had not been strictly truthful with Sheridan or Babylon Five's advisory council about having the permission of my government for my change. The rest of the Nine had explicitly told me to wait, and I had defied them. They had known it—or at least, Hedronn had—even before my emergence; Lennier told me, the day after the delegate came, that Hedronn had actually traveled to Babylon Five to see for himself what I had done. I knew there would be consequences. Hedronn had given me the Triluminary, but that would be no defense. Had I read his meaning wrongly, thinking he meant me to use it whether the Council agreed or not? All my doubts from before the Chrysalis came rushing back. Had I been right to do this? Was Kosh right in choosing me? Or were we both wrong, and this task was not mine after all? Had I risked death or disfigurement, become a stranger to my own people, for nothing more than pride or misplaced faith in a destiny that was not my own?

The one bright spot, as I waited fearfully for word from Minbar, was my growing friendship with John Sheridan. I enjoyed his company, and felt he understood me in a way others didn't. Not even those I already called friends—Lennier, Susan Ivanova, Mr. Garibaldi and of course Dr. Franklin, who was beside himself with joy at having my unique physiology to puzzle over. I saw the effort it took him not to treat me like some wonderful new scientific toy, and felt grateful. My own people saw me as quite enough of an oddity as it was. Some humans clearly did as well. I grew used to averted eyes, hostile glances, occasional muttered epithets. And clung all the harder to those who valued me.

Mayan was touring during this time, and was hard to reach. I felt grateful for that as well, though also ashamed. I had not expected my own people to turn from me as thoroughly as many of them had; I could not have borne it if Mayan did, too. It was better not to know. Sheridan eased my loneliness; I found myself looking forward to our chance meetings in the Zen garden, and spent more time there in hopes of increasing them.

He was so open, and this more than anything drew me. Whatever he felt and thought was right there in his face, for everyone to see and judge. At first I saw this as the unthinking trust of a child, but I had not known him a week before I realized he was too intelligent for such naiveté. His openness spoke instead of an easy confidence. A choice to show himself exactly as he was, and to take others in the same way unless their own actions proved otherwise. I admired this, and felt all the more troubled that I could not meet such honesty with complete truth-telling of my own.

"He deserves better," I told Kosh one day, when Sheridan had been much on my mind. "If he is meant to be our ally against the Shadows, should we not tell him everything? Should we not cease deceiving him by silence?" Strong words, but they expressed what I felt.

"The chosen is not yet," was his cryptic reply, maddeningly typical of Vorlons.

"I don't know what that means."

The iris of his encounter suit opened and closed. "Understanding is not required…"

His gentle chiding made me smile in spite of myself. "You give my own words back to me."

Another motion of the iris, then a slight tilt of the encounter suit's helmet. No words this time, but his meaning was clear.

"I will not speak," I said, with reluctance. "But I still think we should. Sooner rather than later."

His reply was a musical shimmer, mournful-sounding. "The chosen is not yet. Guidance is needed for… difficulties."

He seemed weighed down. I considered pressing him, but the few times I had tried to get more out of Kosh than he was ready to tell had all failed miserably. I bowed and left him, resolved to obey a little longer… but also to try again to persuade him.

In the meantime, I pursued my acquaintance with Sheridan—less for Kosh's purposes than for my own. A little research and a question to Ivanova—who looked surprised at it, but answered me readily enough—persuaded me that dinner together might offer a good beginning for a deeper friendship. And not, I thought, a Minbari ceremonial dinner. The slow unfolding and intricate complexities of that ritual, with its extended meditations on various aspects of sharing, might overwhelm anyone unused to them… and if I had learned anything about John Sheridan by now, I had learned he was a man of action as much as thought. It seemed best to try the human way of doing things first, and see how it went.

He was surprised, though apparently pleasantly so, when I asked him to dine with me. We made arrangements to meet at the Fresh Aire restaurant. I felt unreasonably pleased as I left him, casting one last smile over my shoulder as I walked away. He was, as humans said, very easy on the eye. Strange, I thought, how that had not occurred to me before.

The question of how I should look now loomed in my mind. If we were going to have a human-style "dinner date," as I understood such occasions were called, I should probably wear a human-style dress. Perhaps Ivanova could advise me. Our friendship had grown since the day I turned to her as the only human woman I knew and trusted enough to help me with the mysteries of hair. (How was I supposed to know it needed _washing_—and with its own special soap, yet?) She had aided me before; perhaps she would do so again.

The timepiece on a nearby wall read 1300 hours. Ivanova would be in her favorite coffee shop, enjoying a brief respite from her work. I would not take too much of her time, I promised myself, and turned toward the south end of the Zocalo.

**ooOoo**

"A dress?" Ivanova said. She was smiling over her coffee cup, but also looked puzzled. "What's wrong with your robes? They're gorgeous, and they suit you."

"They are Minbari," I said, while idly debating whether or not to try the raspberry green tea. "This will not be a Minbari type of evening. I wanted something more appropriate to a human-style occasion."

"A dinner date. I remember, you said before." She sipped coffee. "Who with—or is that a nosy question? If it's nosy, you can tell me to shut up."

For my life, I could not fathom why I felt shy about telling her. "Captain Sheridan."

Her raised eyebrow made me suddenly unsure of the entire enterprise. Then her face brightened, and I immediately felt better. "No kidding? Where's he taking you?"

"He suggested the Fresh Aire. We are meeting there this evening."

Her eyes widened a fraction further, and her smile broadened. "Nice. Stand up a minute?"

I stood. She eyed me up and down, then drained her coffee and pushed back from the table. "We're about the same size. I may have just the thing. Come with me."

**ooOoo**

She did have "just the thing"—a soberly elegant evening dress in a sumptuous black fabric that shone in the light and felt softer than a gokk's fur. "Velvet," she told me, as I held it against me and gazed at myself in the mirror embedded in her closet door. "You can't go wrong with basic black. Especially on a first date."

The thought that there would be other "dates" made my cheeks turn faintly pink and my eyes shine a little brighter. _Get hold of yourself_, I thought. _It is only dinner. A chance to get better acquainted when we have more than five minutes to talk of something that isn't politics, or treaties, or whose ruffled feathers need smoothing_. Still, I could not help a little thrill of delight at what Ivanova had said.

I smoothed the dress across the front, and my fingers caught on the edge of diamond-shaped gap high in the bodice. "There seems to be a piece missing."

She grinned. "That's a cutout. It's supposed to be missing."

I frowned, unsure. It looked as if the cutout would show my bare skin in an… interesting spot. As if sensing my unease, Ivanova spoke. "If you're not comfortable with it, we can probably rig up an insert. But honestly, this is nothing compared to the usual 'little black dress.' Most of those are sleeveless, and the skirts on them only come about to here." She held her hand against her thigh, shockingly high up. "Not your style, I figured. But this'll look great. I was going through an understated-fashion phase when I bought it. You'll knock his eyes out."

I felt a jolt of alarm. "I don't want to harm him—!"

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Not literally. It's a figure of speech. It means he'll really like the way you look."

Calm returned. "And this is correct for a dinner date… it will honor him, for me to look well. Yes?"

She nodded. "Yes. Absolutely."

I looked back at my reflection. The cutout _was_ a little daring… but the dress was beautiful. And it would dishonor Ivanova's kindness in lending it if I refused. Decision made, I caught her eye in the mirror and smiled. "Then I will wear this not-so-little black dress. And thank you."

**ooOoo**

That first dinner was a revelation, for both of us. The open admiration in John's face as he caught sight of me walking toward our table was welcome, and unexpected. And about more than the dress, or my upswept hairstyle. It had not occurred to me until then that he thought me beautiful.

We talked of anything and everything that night. Mischievous cats and pet goks. Where we had grown up—he on the wide, flat plains of North America, I in the mountains of Tuzanor. Our families, our favorite foods, poetry and music we liked, beloved places from our childhoods. I described the redbark tree I used to climb, survivor of storms and favorite hiding place for small Minbari girls; he told me of its counterpart, where he went as a boy. "My secret place was an old buffalo wallow," he told me. "A big dip in the ground…" He saw my puzzlement and trailed off. "You could use some background, couldn't you? Have you ever seen a buffalo?"

I had not. He described them vividly: large, brown humpbacked beasts that traveled in herds across the North American plains and provided meat and hides for the people who lived there. "They almost went extinct, but we revived them through breeding programs a couple-three hundred years ago. Anyway, it gets hot on the plains in summer, and the buffalo get bitten up by little insects. Flies and mosquitoes, mostly. The bites make them itch, and they roll on the ground to scratch. And they're so big and ungainly, after a time all that rolling makes a wallow. They'll use it awhile, then the herd moves on and the grass grows back. I'm not sure why, but it's always a little greener… and there are flowers, too, low-growing ones like bluebells and violets." He held up a hand and touched the tip of his smallest finger. "No bigger than that, either of them—and they grow in big bunches, carpets of deep blue and purple and white." He was smiling broadly, lost in happy memory. I liked to look at him this way, I discovered… liked it so much, in fact, that it should have told me something. But the heart does not always tell the head what it is up to… "Anyway," he said, "I'd go into that wallow whenever things were bothering me, and I'd flop down in the middle of all that purple and white and just breathe. Smell the grass and damp dirt and flowers, and the sunshine in the air. You can smell sunshine, you know. You wouldn't think it, but you can. The wallow was so deep, no one could see me unless they walked right up to the edge and looked down. It was my private universe. No one else allowed."

"But you have allowed me," I said, smiling, chin resting on one hand.

He smiled back, eyes sparkling. "I have at that."

He walked me to my door at the end of the evening, and I had the impression he felt reluctant to leave me. I felt a similar reluctance, but chose not to act on it. I was not certain what ritual would be appropriate, or even if there was one. Humans had so few—and we had begun so well, I did not want to risk an embarrassing error. So I left him with a smile and a bow, and found myself daydreaming about our next dinner date instead of meditating properly before sleep. I felt blissful, and more grateful to him than I knew how to say. For an entire evening, he had helped me forget the troubles that loomed—the rising bitterness between the Narn and the Centauri, my growing isolation from other Minbari on-station, the summons from the Grey Council that was surely coming. Even the approaching Shadow War, of whose reality I had yet to convince the rest of the Nine. _I will remember this night always_, I thought, smiling drowsily as sleep claimed me. Recalling the look on his face as he wished me farewell, I believed he would, too.

**ooOoo**

Too soon, the summons came from the Grey Council. With a new leader in place, they wished to discuss my status. I knew what that meant. My respite was over.

I said nothing to Sheridan, or anyone, except to mention a needed trip home. I would be back soon, I told them—though more in hope than certainty. It saddened me to think of leaving them; already, this small group of humans aboard Babylon Five had begun to feel like family. A little clan of sorts, people to belong to when it often seemed as if I did not belong anywhere.

Lennier came with me, at his own insistence. I tried to dissuade him from sharing in my probable disgrace, but he would hear none of it. His loyalty touched me; I felt honored by his friendship and trust. I hoped, as we boarded our flyers and headed toward home, that he would not soon have cause to regret it.

The sight of the _Valen'tha_, hanging in space one jump from Minbar, should have brought the familiar combination of awe and comfort. Instead, it brought anxiety. For Lennier's sake as much as my own, I managed to shake it off; I was still satai, and I would have a chance to make my case before the rest of the Nine. Indeed, I assumed this was why they had summoned me. I left Lennier in guest quarters, then went to the anteroom of the Council Chamber and donned my robe of office. _For the last time? _a voice seemed to whisper in my mind. I realized I was trembling; it took several minutes of deep breathing to regain some semblance of calm. They would not expel me, I told myself. They might wish to, but in defending my actions I would change enough minds to prevail.

I took a final, steadying breath and walked into the vast, echoing Council Chamber to face my colleagues.

No one was there. Save for me, the circle of lights was empty. I waited, uneasy. They should have been here, assembled for my hearing. The silence grew thick and heavy as smoke. Still no one. No footfall, no voice, no rustle of silk.

Something was very wrong. Heart hammering in my chest, I took down my hood and spoke the ritual words. "Summoned, I take the place that has been prepared for me. I am Grey; I stand between the candle and the star. We are Grey; we stand between the darkness and the light."

More silence greeted me. Then, finally, a voice. Hedronn. I could not believe I was hearing what he said. "They will not come, Delenn."

I turned toward the sound of his approach. He stepped into a circle of light, and I saw with shock that he held the Staff of Valen. I had thought Jenimer led the Council now; had something happened to him? Or had he delegated his authority to Hedronn for purposes of talking to me? A chill gripped me at that thought. There was no reason for Jenimer—or the rest of the Council—to summon me here and then refuse to see me. No reason to send Hedronn, alone, with Jenimer's staff and cold words and a closed look on his face. Unless—

My response sounded shakier than I would have liked. "But—I was summoned…"

His hand tightened on the staff. A small betrayal, but it spoke volumes. He was not happy with what he had been sent to do. "To receive judgment, yes. Not to appear as one of the Nine."

The statement struck me like a blow. They _were_ expelling me. Without a word, or any procedure that was mine by tradition and right… "I'm entitled to a hearing. I'm allowed to defend myself."

Something flickered in his eyes, too swiftly to identify. Anger, well controlled, clipped short his reply. "That was before you disobeyed us. You were told to wait before taking this action. Before becoming…" He paused, and looked me up and down as if he found the sight distasteful. Disturbing, even. "…Alien to us."

_Alien_. I swallowed hard, looked away. I had not known until that moment how much a mere word could hurt.

He saw, of course; his voice was gentler when he continued. "You have been away from us for too long, Delenn. Your contact with the humans has changed more than your appearance. If you are no longer one of us, how can you be one of the Nine?"

He sounded like a man trying to convince himself. Parroting the words of another whose argument had persuaded his head, but not his heart.

There might be hope in that. I answered him, not as Satai Delenn, but as one friend to another. "My heart has not changed."

His lips tightened; what little compassion I had read in him fled. "We no longer know your heart, Delenn. The Council has voted to remove you from our presence. From this day forward, you are no longer a member of the Grey Council. No longer satai." A slight pause, no more than a breath. "I'm sorry, Delenn."

_Sorry._ Was that all he could say? They had turned my universe inside out. Taken my place from me, that was a gift from Dukhat—his last act of faith and trust. And they had broken tradition to do it. Words crowded into my brain, but none could get past my tight throat. I forced down the tears that threatened, and managed to say one thing just as Hedronn turned away: "Wait!"

He stopped, half-turned back toward me.

"What about my appointment to Babylon Five?" I fought down the desperate edge in my voice. "My position as ambassador is separate from my role as satai."

He pursed his lips. "We are still debating this." Then he seemed to relent. He chose his next words carefully, as if they were glass that might break. "It is your right to make a statement before the Nine, if that is your wish."

His neutral expression told me nothing, but I guessed what he was doing. Offering me the one way out he could give, the one chance to speak my piece to the Council despite their determination not to hear it. That knowledge gave me strength. "It is," I said. "Thank you."

He nodded, a slight gesture. In his face, I saw again a flash of compassion. And unease.

Sudden apprehension gripped me. There was something he had not told me, something that disturbed him enough to let it show. Something he could not tell me, perhaps? "May I ask—who was chosen to replace me?"

"I will convene the Nine," he said. "When we are ready, you will be summoned."

I listened to the echo as his footsteps died away. And tried not to break down as I watched the circle of lights wink out, one by one by one.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: **Neroon's dialogue is taken from "Acts of Sacrifice". The garden scene is from "There All Honor Lies"—as usual, the dialogue belongs to JMS but the subtext is my own.

**Part 17—Closed Doors, Open Windows **

The Grey Council lost no time making its anger known. I had expected chastisement; even, after Hedronn, expulsion. He had argued for me and lost, I surmised from his slumped shoulders and weary air. My only other ally was Rathenn, and his was but one voice against the rest. I knew he could do nothing but keep silent while they dealt with me. He would do whatever else he could behind the scenes, with Sinclair. He was risking himself quite enough with that.

What truly shocked me was their choice of my replacement as satai. I could not hide my dismay when Alyt Neroon stepped into my place in the circle of lights and began to harangue me. His presence unbalanced the Council, gave the warrior caste four votes and the religious caste only two. This was wrong, it was not how we had done things for a thousand years, it went against everything Valen had taught us… and all I could do was protest, knowing they would not heed.

Neroon was scathing. He had never forgiven me for the incident with Branmer's body, nor yet for our surrender at the Battle of the Line. I was a creature he did not recognize, he said. An affront to the purity of our race. And presumptuous, to believe I was satisfying prophecy by the change I had undergone. When I asked to return to Babylon Five, he agreed with open scorn. "You have no home with either of us. So please—act out your fantasy. Be our go-between. Return to Babylon Five—and stay there!"

_No home…_ The words shook me. I could have wept; but I would not let them see weakness. I gathered the shreds of my dignity, bowed, and left the chamber in silence.

When I met Lennier in the corridor outside, I put a brave face on things; he pretended to be fooled, and I let him. Such is the common language of Minbari—selective failure to notice things that another wishes to conceal. We know perfectly well we are doing it, and I blessed him for it. He was a true friend, willing to follow me into fire. Which was more than I could say for those I had just left behind.

We returned to Babylon Five just in time to help rescue Sheridan from the clutches of the Streibs, who had a pernicious habit of capturing other races and testing them in various unpleasant ways as a prelude to invasion. He and the Narn rescued with him seemed little the worse for wear, considering what they had been through. It felt good to take action, after my helplessness aboard the _Valen'tha_. Not until days afterward did it fully sink in that I had helped save Sheridan's life—again. Was there meaning in that, I wondered… or was I seeing meaning where it did not exist, simply because I wanted to?

Some weeks passed, in which I slowly grew used to my reduced status and life aboard the station continued with its usual controlled chaos. John—I had begun to think of him by his first name—and I met and talked on occasion; and when the simmering conflict between the Centauri and the Narn finally erupted in open warfare, we put together a scheme to bring food to besieged Narn planets and smuggle refugees out past Centauri blockades. It was John's idea; his government, like mine, had refused to get involved, and we were both disgusted by such cravenness. I could not command the resources as a mere ambassador that I could as Satai Delenn, but I still had my clan ties, and it was a relief to do something. Though I knew G'Kar had hoped for far more. In justice, he should have had it—but justice, it seemed, had little to do with anything these days. The darkness was growing, swallowing the Narns. _How many more_, I thought sometimes, in the dead hours of night. And we were so desperately unready. I took some small comfort in knowing that in John Sheridan, I had an ally as well as a friend. And more.

How can I describe the slow, unfolding joy of falling in love? Snatched moments in the Zen garden. Dinners that were anything but working. Endless excuses to spend time with him, even just a few minutes. A quick extra word after council meetings, brief chats when we met in the corridor. Wordplay in the garden—especially Earth slang terms, which I understood perfectly well, but pretended I did not in order to make him laugh. I liked to hear him laugh, to see the care lift from his face. It felt good to have a friend—for so I still thought he was, then. Lennier was my rock, and I prized his affection… but I depended on him so much already, I could not bring myself to ask more of him. Also, John was someone I could turn to who had never known me as satai. He knew me only as Delenn.

The more I saw and learned of him, the more I liked him. Before long, I suspected it was more than liking. That knowledge should have troubled me, and when I was being sensible, it did… but I was not often sensible in John's company. I would argue with myself: it was good to be on such cordial terms with the station commander, it could only benefit the Minbari. The Grey Council would not care about my personal conduct, so long as I did nothing disgraceful; since my change, they had made their disdain for me abundantly clear. They still saw John as Starkiller, and would not approve of the closeness between us—but what they did not know would not hurt them. They had left me to myself among the humans, and so I would please myself. Being with John pleased me. Seeing him smile, hearing him laugh, talking with him, pleased me. Why should I hold back from these things when I did not want to—and he did not seem to want me to, either?

As to my deeper purpose, I avoided acknowledging it. Kosh had spoken of the war that was coming—a return of the great darkness from a thousand years ago that now threatened to destroy us all. To meet that threat, I had become a stranger to my people. Jeffrey Sinclair had gone to Minbar, to live and work among the very race that twelve years prior had done its best to obliterate his, in order to revive the Anla'shok so that the darkness might be turned back. Now, we needed to know about John Sheridan. Was he the ally foretold by prophecy—part of the One, who would help defeat the Shadows? Or only a man, kind-hearted and intelligent and courageous enough, but not the leader we sought?

I had begun our acquaintance in part to discover this. I had not expected to find him so much more than prophecy said. As I grew to care for him, it was harder to say nothing about it. It felt deceptive and calculated. And sometimes I wondered—what would he think of me, if he knew? Would he question if anything I felt for him was real?

Then came the day John was attacked. By a Minbari warrior named Levell, under ambiguous circumstances. When the smoke cleared, Levell was dead—and the sole witness to the encounter, a religious caste Minbari named Ashon, accused John of murder.

Minbari do not lie, except to save life or honor. Always another's life or honor, never one's own. Ashon stuck to his story of murder after surrender, John to his of desperate self-defense. One of their stories had to be false. Knowingly so. It seemed inconceivable that either of them would lie. Yet one was.

My confidence in my own judgment, already shaky, suffered another blow. John Sheridan was honest by nature; I would have staked my life on it. Was I wrong? Had I misread him yet again, and he truly had done what Ashon accused him of? Or was Ashon deceiving us for some reason he thought honorable, of which we knew nothing?

I could not see John as a murderer driven by hatred, no matter what Ashon said. It simply did not fit with the man I had come to know. To Ashon, he was Starkiller—but I knew better. The question was how to prove it, before time ran out and he was removed from command, placed on trial, possibly even imprisoned.

I kept away from John, to protect him as much as myself, while Lennier and I sought the truth. Lennier and Ashon were clansmen; Ashon might confess to him what he would not tell me. I, as he said, was a freak, and he would not talk to freaks.

In the end, it was as we suspected. Ashon had lied for what he believed was the honor of his clan. He was young, and misled by elders who should have known better. Lennier and I worked out a way to get the confession we needed, and told John's advocate from Earth. The only thing left to do was tell John himself.

I chose to do this, though I was not at all sure of my reception. My distance of late had hurt him; he was likely wondering if I believed him a murderer, and dismayed that I could think such a thing. I asked to meet him in the Zen garden, thinking the tranquil setting would calm my mind. He agreed, though his manner was guarded when he answered my call. I did not have high hopes as I waited by the little waterfall where we had so often talked before.

The sound of his step made me turn. He wore a reproachful look as he entered the garden; I could tell he was trying to school his face, but he never was much good at it. We sat on opposite benches in silence for several heartbeats. No more than a few paces separated us, yet I felt as if we were on two sides of a chasm.

He spoke first. My government had demanded that Ashon be sent home, which meant there could be no trial. No chance for the truth to come out, for John to clear his name. He talked of a time during the war between our peoples, an incident when he had found himself adrift—all alone in the night. He knew of nothing worse, he said. But I did. To be alone in a crowd, cut off from everything and everyone you know. Minbari live so much of our lives for each other—to us, _alone_ is a word of terror.

Ashon would have feared it, as I did. To preserve the bonds of family and clan, he would have done just about anything. He and his clan elders had wronged John, dishonoring themselves to dishonor him; to Minbari ways of thinking, that made us all guilty of their error. It was mine to atone now, because I could—and they would not. "You must understand, Captain," I said, and faltered. It was so difficult to explain. Yet it mattered that John know why this had happened—that he judge Ashon, and by extension all of us, by what he had truly done rather than something worse. "There is no greater honor among my people than to serve. They work for generations to create a legacy, a tradition… In the service of their clan, they are ready to sacrifice everything. Their individuality, their blood, their life—"

"Their honor?" He spoke coldly. Humans had plenty of that themselves, he went on to say—conspiracies of silence to protect larger ideals that could not be protected if the smaller ones were compromised. "It's like building a house without a foundation, Delenn. It can't stand. You know that as well as I do!"

I did know. He was angry. I did not blame him. I had erred, badly. In trying to explain, I had appeared to condone—the opposite of my intent. Words had failed; there was nothing left but to show him the truth.

"Come with me," I said, and left the garden, praying he still trusted me enough to follow.

**ooOoo**

I went to my quarters, where I had left Lennier. The advocate was there; her presence surprised John. He looked puzzled, but said nothing. I went to Lennier, who was steeling himself for what came next. "You are certain you wish to do this?" I had asked him that before, but it was worth one last try.

His taut answer told me he was fighting to keep composure. "I see no other way."

_I would do this for you if I could,_ I thought, but did not say it. I had no kin ties to the fanes of Chudomo; no act of mine could redeem the clan honor Ashon's falsehood had besmirched. Only Lennier could do it, by taking Ashon's disgrace upon himself.

I bowed to him, conveying my deep respect for his courage. His bleak expression lightened. John and I, and the advocate, went into my bedroom. Lennier stayed in the sitting-room, waiting for Ashon.

The conversation between them, after he arrived, was brief and painful. Lennier recorded every word of Ashon's confession. I glanced at John—I couldn't help it—and watched his puzzlement turn to belated understanding. And then, after we went in and confronted Ashon with our knowledge, sympathy as it dawned on him that the confession Lennier had just obtained would disgrace the entire Chudomo clan once it became public—and Lennier along with them.

What John did next… I think that was the moment I first knew I loved him, though it would take many months and several shared crises before I fully acknowledged it. He grasped what Lennier meant to do, and would not let him. Instead, he found his own solution. If Ashon admitted publicly to what he truly saw—but no more—John would agree to keep the reasons secret for the sake of Lennier's clan. The larger disgrace of the Chudomo would remain private, Lennier's honor untouched… and John would no longer be considered a murderer. And if questions remained about why any of it happened… well, Babylon Five had its share of mysteries. What, as he said, was one more?

I had known he was kind, and had courage. But that he would do so much for Lennier, who had so little claim on him… They were not kin, or even the kind of friends for whom such an act might be expected. They were acquaintances and colleagues who thought well of each other. Yet John did for him what one might do for a dear friend or a clansman. A brother, even.

For this act alone, I was forever in his debt. And my heart reached out to him, seeking a deeper connection. What that might mean to Kosh, or for the coming war, or the question of the roles we were to play, scarcely mattered. I merely wanted to be closer to him, and for once let prophecy tend to itself.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: **The first section incorporates dialogue from "In the Shadow of Z'ha'dum"; I have also quoted Delenn's beautiful "where no shadows fall" speech from "Confessions and Lamentations". Gapfiller scenes are my own—though I give a very large tip of the hat to other authors on this site who've written exceptional stories about the aftermath of the Markab plague. Their work has surely informed my own on some level, and for that I owe them a debt.

**Part 18—Revelations**

I said nothing to John of my growing feelings for him. I did not know how he would take them, or even how to convey them in a way he would understand. Minbari have a hundred rituals for courtship; humans, it seemed, had none. Or at least none I felt comfortable with. I knew also that he had been married, and lost his life-mate abruptly just two years before his appointment to Babylon Five. He spoke of her very little, and with difficulty; her name was Anna, she had died on an archaeological expedition, and he still loved her. That last, he did not say; he did not have to. His face and voice and the way he held himself the first time he talked of her told me clearly enough.

I felt honored by his confidence, and acutely sad for him. His faithfulness to Anna's memory made me think of Mayan, and the wound she still suffered from losing Branmer. If I lost John, would I suffer like that? I didn't know. I knew I cared for him, wanted to be with him, and felt glad whenever I could lighten his burdens. Of those, he had many. What Kosh and I had to tell him, when the time was right, would only be one more.

I wished we did not have to do it. Often, I wished there was no war coming, no prophecy or danger to trouble us. The young girl I had been, who dreamed of being called to stand against the darkness, now seemed hopelessly naïve. This was no story, no heroic legend to be sung with drumbeats and stirring chords from harp and flute. This was real, and exacted a cruel price from all those caught up in it. If I could have spared John, let alone myself, I would have.

But I could not spare either of us. Mr. Morden returned to the station and crossed paths with John—and from that moment, there was no turning back.

John was determined to get answers from Morden about what had happened to Anna. He recognized Morden from pictures of the crew aboard the _Icarus_—the ship Anna had died on, that supposedly exploded in deep space. I remember the shock I felt when John first told me its name. I knew what really happened to the _Icarus_; Kosh had showed me. To say nothing of it to John, then, was among the hardest things I have ever done. Once he had Morden in the brig aboard the station, there was no choice. We had to tell him what we knew.

He was staggered by it. Kosh showed him the fate of the _Icarus_, as he had earlier done with me. I saw John's face as he watched and wished I could conjure his anguish away. I hated being so helpless. But I could do nothing except tell the story, in words less cryptic than a Vorlon's. Even before the end of it, John was protesting the hard reality he did not want to be true.

"But were they all killed?" He was fumbling for words. "Delenn, maybe… maybe some of them were kept alive as prisoners. Anna might still be alive! Morden—"

"Must be released!" I forced myself to say it. My heart was one giant knot of pain. I was hurting him with every word that came out of my mouth. _Because he loves her,_ I thought. _He loves her, and cannot face the thought that she is dead…_

If she _was_ dead. The Shadows killed those who would not serve them. So Kosh had told me, and so all the accounts said. But what if Anna was like Morden? What if they had kept her alive as an ally… or worse, a tool? The Shadows did not perceive time as we younger races did. Like the Vorlons, they saw in spirals, timelines folding back on themselves from future to past to possible future. If they knew about John, that he was meant to lead us in the fight against them…

His voice shook as he spoke. "After what you've just shown me, how can you ask me to let him go?"

If he thought there was any chance his wife still lived, he would go to Z'ha'dum and tear the planet apart with his bare hands until he found her. I could see it in his eyes. They would kill him, of course. Most likely before he even managed to land. The thought of him dead opened a void in my heart. I could not let it happen. Not for prophecy, or the war. For myself. Because in that moment, I knew I did not want to live without him.

He had said she would not serve. He loved her. He would know. If she were like Morden, he could not love her so. What he believed of her must be true. She was dead.

All this passed through my mind in a heartbeat. I forced myself to focus on what he had asked me. "Because right now, they do not know how much we know. The last time, the Shadows lost because they moved too quickly. Now they are being careful—gathering their forces slowly. If you push Morden, sooner or later he will be forced to tell you what happened. Then he will be killed. And you will be killed. The Shadows will move now, before we are ready for them."

He still did not want to accept it. "How are they going to know?"

"Because Morden is never alone!" I had to make him understand. We were asking him to sacrifice his last hope of Anna—for this, he must know exactly why that price was necessary. "We are on our own," I told him. "We will have only one chance to stop them—and if we fail, billions will die."

It was a terrible decision we were making him face. I had already made mine, and knew only too well how hard it was. He could not tell us yes. He said he had to think, and abruptly left my quarters.

"_Isil'zha_," Kosh said after a time. He sounded weary and sad.

I kept my eyes on the door through which John had vanished. "We must trust him. We have no other choice."

Some hours later, John did as we asked. He released Morden—and then retreated to his quarters to grieve. I wanted to be with him. To hold him, stroke his hair, touch my forehead to his and tell him everything would be all right. I couldn't, of course. The road before us led through darkness and fire, and there was no guarantee any of us would survive it.

**ooOoo**

I did not see him for the next three days. On the fourth, I sought him out, using the Narn refugee ships as a pretext. His smile was forced, and he was all business. It was as if most of the past year between us had never happened.

I thought I had managed to conceal my dismay, but I must have betrayed something, because I had scarcely reached the doorway of his office when he called me back. "Ambassador…" He sighed. "Delenn, I'm sorry. You're just the messenger. I shouldn't be blaming you for…" He trailed off and looked away.

I understood. "I am sorry to have borne such tidings. I…" Now it was my turn to trail off, at a loss for words. _I wish it were not true. I wish you were not in pain. I wish I could make you happy again. _Useless, to say any of those things. His gaze was still averted; I bowed and turned to leave.

"Have you ever loved someone?" he said abruptly.

_You,_ I thought. How would he respond if I dared say it? Dukhat came to mind then; it was not the same, exactly, and yet… "Yes."

"And did you lose him?"

I swallowed hard, remembering those awful moments after the _Prometheus_ fired. "Yes."

He looked at me then, with softness in his eyes. "I'm…" He gave a short laugh, hardly more than a breath. "I was about to say I'm glad, and that's not true. I could never be glad about anything that hurt you. What… what I meant to say is—"

I knew. "You are glad to know you are not alone."

He smiled then, a small one but genuine. "And… I'm glad you're the one who understands."

He could not have paid me a higher compliment. I couldn't look away, didn't want to.

"Delenn—" As he moved toward me, his link sounded. He scowled, muttered something unintelligible, then answered it. "Sheridan. Go."

It was Ivanova, on station business. I bowed and left, and went back to my quarters in Green Sector. And had a long talk with myself about John, but came to no resolution save that I loved him.

**ooOoo**

Not long afterward, the Markab began to die. First one, then more. Within a week, the Markab plague was sweeping the station. Rumors ran wild: it was a bioweapon gone rogue, it was really meant to kill Narns or Centauri or Drazi or humans, it had jumped species and we would all be dead in days. The arrival of a ship from the Markab homeworld, full of plague-wracked corpses, turned nervous tensions into hysteria. All around the station, Markab were attacked—spat on, chased down, beaten, killed. A story went around that the still-healthy Markab had decided to go into isolation, to avoid their ill kindred as well as the violence. This tale turned out to be true. A day after confirming it, I went to John's quarters with a request. I, and Lennier along with me, wished to enter the Markab isolation zone. The Markab had been staunch allies to the Minbari in the last Shadow War, and we had counted them friends ever since. We owed them a debt—and even if we had not, they were in need. Lacking medical expertise, Lennier and I could do little for them along those lines—Stephen Franklin and the medical staff were working themselves nearly to death in a frantic search for a cure—but we could at least offer them comfort. If the plague followed them into their self-imposed quarantine, we could give them a hand to hold as they died. Bear witness, so they would not go forgotten into the long night.

John fought me at first, but it was a losing battle. He pointed out the risks, but I knew them. He said the Markab had no claim on me—"_They're not your own people, Delenn!"_—but that did not matter, and he knew it as well as I did. In the end I wore him down, and he gave the order to let us through.

It came to me that if we did contract the plague, I would not see John again. Not in this lifetime. As for the next, there was no way to know. He looked as if his heart had been hollowed out. I could not leave him so. Greatly daring, I caressed his face. A lover's touch, though I did not know if it meant the same to him. "Don't look away, Captain. All life is transitory… a dream. If I do not see you again, here, I will see you in a little while, in the place where no shadows fall."

He stood so still, he was barely breathing. He did not turn his head from my hand. As I left him, he asked me to call him John… when he did see me again.

I had been calling him so in my mind for months. That he would ask me to… his tone, his face, told me how much it meant. I managed to nod agreement, and left before I could lose all restraint and simply go to him and hold him the way I longed to.

**ooOoo**

Mere words cannot convey the sorrow and horror of the isolation zone—the long, slow dying of a terrified people, one by one by one. Fragments come through clearly, though disjointed. The lost little girl I comforted; Lennier finding her mother, the mother embracing her daughter just as the child showed the first symptoms of plague. The death chants, strong at first with many voices, then dwindling as time passed and more died, until at last only one old woman's reedy voice was left. My own voice and Lennier's, singing the chant for her in turn when her time came. We had heard it so often by then, we sang it from memory. The corpses whose eyes we did not have time to shut, whose hands we did not have time to fold across their chests in the Markab manner, because there were too many dying and not enough still living. The funeral candles unlit because we ran out of space. The smell, as the first few days' dead began to decay. There was nowhere to move them, nothing to do about it except endure. And through it all, the nightmare fear that we were next. A stumble from fatigue, a dry throat from the stale recycled air, each brought a jolt of fear. Had I caught it? Had Lennier? He had followed me here out of loyalty and friendship; had I condemned him to death?

I lost track of time. No one communicated with us from outside. Huddled against a bulkhead, Lennier's living presence the only comfort amid a sea of dead bodies, I had the irrational conviction that everyone had died. The plague had killed them all; only Lennier and I were left, until the disease claimed us too. _John_, I thought dully, and could not even cry for him. It hurt too much. He was dead. I would never call him by his given name. The last thing he had asked of me, and I would not be able to do it. It seemed a terrible loss, though not so terrible as the death all around us. We waited, but we no longer knew for what.

A sound at the hatchway. The dull shriek of metal as the stubborn hatch lock turned. Then light from the corridor outside. And people: Stephen, Susan, security personnel. John. _Alive,_ I thought. My mind felt sluggish, like an ice-choked stream. _He is alive…_

They were gazing at the piles of corpses, overwhelmed by the enormity of the tragedy. I saw shock on Stephen's face, and denial. He carried a tray of what must have been life-saving medicine; he could not bear the reality that he was too late. Susan looked near tears—and John…

He was peering through the gloom. Tense, afraid. Looking for us, I realized slowly. Afraid to see two Minbari corpses among the rest.

Lennier managed to move, pulled me gently to my feet. We stumbled toward the open hatchway and those who stood near it. Lennier reached Susan, who took his arm and spoke softly to him. I did not hear what she said, or his reply. The only thing in my universe at that moment was John.

I said his name, reached for him with trembling hands. He took me in his arms. His warmth, his strength, the realness of him, undid me. The world broke apart as grief descended like a storm.

**ooOoo**

It was a long way back to Green Sector. John guided my faltering steps, shepherded me home by back ways so that everyone would not see my distress. Shattered and exhausted, I could not stop crying. He was gentle with me, stopping every so often to hold me and stroke my hair and murmur in my ear. I don't recall anything he said… only his voice, soothing and soft. By the time we reached Green Sector, my sobbing had quieted to shuddering breaths. I could hardly stand, but that was all right. John was holding me. He would not let me fall.

We stopped outside the door to my quarters. Sudden terror seized me. I smelled of death. I could not bring that smell inside. Could not bear the thought of it touching my rooms, my things, the air I breathed each night as I slept. I stiffened in John's arms and made a small, panicked sound.

"What?" he said. "Delenn, what's wrong?"

I could only shake my head.

He held me against him, stroking my hair. "It's okay. I'm here. Talk to me."

After a moment, I found I could. "I can't go in there." I shuddered. "I can't, I can't…"

He guessed what the trouble was. After a quick glance around the deserted corridor, he said, "Tell you what. Why don't you leave your outer robe out here, and then we'll go inside? How about that?"

The smell was in my hair, my skin. How could I shed those outside my door? Dimly, I realized I was being hysterical. I would have to go in sometime. I wanted a water shower desperately, and then a long sleep in my own bed. I craved them, as one half-frozen craves heat.

I shrugged out of my outer robe and let it fall. Somehow, I managed the entry code, and John maneuvered me inside. He walked me to the bedroom, where we halted. I did not want to let go of him, yet I needed to feel water on my body. Hot, soothing, washing away the stench of death.

I gathered what strength I could and moved a little away from him. He watched me, concerned. "Doing all right?"

I managed a nod. "Shower," I whispered.

"You want me to run it for you?"

"I—" My voice wouldn't work right. "I will manage."

"All right." He eased his supporting arm away. "I'll go make you some tea. Call if you need me."

I stood under the hot spray for a long time. The faces of dead Markab flashed through my mind. Too many to remember by name. After a time, they began to blur. All except the little girl. What had her name been? Had she told me? She had. I could feel her next to me, her small warm body pressed to mine. We had sat like that while I told her about the time I was lost in Tuzanor, and my parents found me. Why could I not remember her name?

It seemed a grievous failing that I could not recall this. Suddenly I was weeping, huddled on the cold tile floor of the shower while the falling water struck my skin and soaked my hair. I heard John, distant, calling out, but could not answer him.

A breath of cool air, a soft voice swearing in English. Strong arms lifting me, wrapping me in a towel and carrying me somewhere. My bed. Gentle hands drying me off, then helping me into a robe. It smelled clean and fresh, with a hint of moonflowers. No more death. Then someone sat me in a chair and pressed a cup of tea into my hands. I blinked, and came back to myself enough to see John. He was worried and trying not to show it. He had shed his uniform jacket, and there were damp patches all down his shirt. "Here you go," he said as he wrapped my fingers around the cup and held them there. "I'm not sure what this is, but it smelled good. You back with me now? Good. Drink a little."

I recognized the scent of _r'fani_, a mildly sedative tea. I managed a small smile, just enough for reassurance, and sipped. Hot and sweet, the tea eased my tight throat. John's presence did the rest. To have him near me was a blessing, a light amid storm clouds.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked quietly.

I shook my head. He did not press me; instead, he sat with me and told stories. Long, rambling ones that had nothing to do with the ordeal I had undergone. A day when he and his sister went treasure-hunting and got lost; they sang what he called "campfire songs" to keep their spirits up, and wandered in circles for hours until they finally saw something familiar and realized they had been quite close to home the entire time. A summer he spent in the country of France, whose language he did not speak well, and how foolish he felt when he mistakenly told a woman at a baker's shop that he _was_ a pastry, rather than that he _wanted_ a pastry. A visit to a religious sage, the Dalai Lama, who asked him questions he did not understand and seemed pleased when he forthrightly said so. The rhythm of his voice soothed me. I felt my eyes closing, and nearly dropped the cooling tea.

He rescued the cup from my clumsy fingers, then tucked me into bed and stayed by me until I fell asleep. _This is all wrong_, I thought dimly as I drifted off… _it is the male who sleeps and the female who watches… _but the thought of him watching over me was an unexpected comfort. Perhaps because of that, I did not dream that night.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: **Significant dialogue is quoted from "Divided Loyalties" in this chapter (including the "motor-butt" scene…). As always, gapfillers are my own. (Always wanted to see the scene where Delenn met Lyta in Brown Three… and to know how the two of them ended up marching into Sheridan's office together some hours later.)

**Part 19—A Gathering of Light**

It took time, and many hours of meditation, before I felt fully recovered. Lennier spent some of it with me; he too needed to grieve, and shared grief is always less than sorrow borne alone. Meanwhile, the day of reckoning grew closer. I kept in touch with Rathenn and others back home, and made sure certain enterprises were continuing on schedule. Sinclair sent regular reports; the Anla'shok were coming along, and the first groups of human and other non-Minbari recruits had adapted well to the training regimen. They had so impressed the Minbari, in fact, that there was virtually no friction between them—not even between humans and recruits from the warrior caste. Of whom, Sinclair fretted, there were still too few for his liking.

_And mine_, I thought when he told me this. Neroon's bitter contempt came to mind, when the Nine expelled me from their number, and I wondered uneasily what the ripple effect would be of what we were doing now. Not that we had much choice. The Rangers must be expanded and trained, battle-ready ships must be built… and all without the knowledge of a Grey Council too paralyzed with indecision to act. _Wait_, Hedronn had said, but we could not wait. Too many lives hung in the balance. My own meditations brought me an unsettled feeling I had not had since the long-ago ritual before my coming of age—a sense of unseen currents shifting, timelines crossing and re-crossing and coalescing as events and possibilities moved with dizzying speed. We were closing in on a turning point—but what it was, or when we would reach it, I could not say. Only that it would happen soon.

The first rumble of thunder from the approaching storm came from an unexpected direction. Lyta Alexander—a human telepath who had helped mediate some intricate business dealings for me some time previously—reappeared aboard Babylon Five, and not in her professional capacity. The opposite, in fact—and in grave danger. I did not learn the specifics until later, at which point it became clear that Babylon Five faced threats from more than the Shadows. Or, worse, that the Shadows had their hooks into the powerful, secretive organization known as Psi Corps—and through them, to Morgan Clark's increasingly authoritarian government.

I had gone to find John in the Zen garden, to talk with him about the Narn food shipments we had arranged. He was gruff and scowling, not at all his usual demeanor with me. Clearly, something was wrong. He did not wish to talk about it, he said when I asked. By now, my experience with humans had taught me that when they say they do not wish to talk of something, they often mean the opposite. They simply find it hard to acknowledge. So I waited, silent, ready to listen.

"Why is it," he said at length, dropping onto the nearest bench, "that every time you finally get things calmed down and everything's going great, life decides to… kick you in the butt?"

That little pause in mid-sentence told me he had intended stronger language, but held back for fear of offense. Now was not the time to tell him he needn't have bothered; I had heard far worse on occasion while passing the open-air bar in the Zocalo. He needed some distraction, preferably a pleasant one. I thought of a way to provide it.

I gave him my best puzzled frown. "But what?"

Now it was his turn to look bewildered. "What?"

"You said, 'Life decides to kick you, but…'?"

His confused expression vanished. "No. No," he said, laughing a little. (There it was… that boyish grin I could never see too many times. _Well done, Delenn_, I thought, schooling my face not to show it.) "It's…" He was actually turning a little pink. "It's a part of the body. A…" He turned pinker, along with more laughter. "You have the damnedest gaps in your vocabulary."

If he only knew. "In preparing to come here, I was not taught the more colorful aspects of your language." _Not taught, exactly_… "It was considered inappropriate for one of the religious caste."

"Well, you missed out on a lot."

"So I gather." I began to play with the word, first repeating it and then conjugating it like an English verb. "I butt… you butt… he or she butts…"

He was laughing outright now, half protesting and half enjoying the game. "No…"

"Butt, butt… butt-butt—"

"You sound like a motorboat."

Another word to play with. Excellent. "Motor-butt?" I gave him a mock frown. "I do not think I like the sound of that."

He played along, pretending disapproval. "Well, I don't blame you. I'm against the whole idea."

I let my amusement show. "Then we are in agreement."

He grinned back. "Abso-fragging-lutely!"

Much better. "There, you see?" I said. Inviting him to wonder why, and ask me.

Which he did, still smiling. "What?"

"Something has gone your way today. It's the way the universe works. Wait just a little while, and the wheel turns."

He looked thoughtful suddenly, as if a light had been switched on in a corner of his soul where he was not used to going much. Then he glanced down. At his hand, which was resting on the bench… with mine covering it. Caught up in the moment, I had reached out and touched him without even knowing.

We looked back up at the same time, and our eyes met. "Thank you," he murmured. The warmth in his voice, and in his eyes, gave me a fluttery feeling, as if the station's gravity had lightened.

Something chirped somewhere. Then again. Belatedly, I recognized the sound of John's link. I moved my hand and glanced away as John answered the call. I felt shaky and overwhelmed and thrilled all at once. How much had I given away, I wondered… and then wondered if it mattered. Perhaps not…

John closed the call and cleared his throat. "I have to go."

"Of course." I stood to depart as well, and found I did not want to turn away from him. Not even long enough to leave the garden. "Farewell, Captain."

He nodded good-bye, still giving me that look. As if he had never really seen me properly until now, but liked what he saw. If I was reading him correctly, and not simply seeing what I wished to.

I took firm hold of my emotions as I left the garden behind. Whatever had just happened, or not, between us could only distract me. Work, as always, was waiting.

**ooOoo**

It was well into the evening when the call came from Lyta—an unexpected but welcome interruption from the dry diplomacy of my formal letter declining to open trade relations with the Lumati. (An arrogant, headstrong race with firm notions of their own superiority, even toward the other race with whom they shared their homeworld, the Lumati were distasteful to deal with at best; trade relations would simply open up countless opportunities to take mutual offense.) I had not seen Lyta since her service as mediator two years ago; I recalled her as honest and intelligent, with an open friendliness that had made me regret having little chance to get to know her better. She apologized for disturbing me, and for imposing on me—"but I need your help. Can you meet me in Brown Three in, say, an hour?"

I could, and told her so. Though normally I would not have pried, out of concern I couldn't help asking if she was in some kind of trouble.

"Ambassador," she said wearily, "I think I'm in just about every kind of trouble there is."

She gave no details, and I did not press her. She said she would meet me in an hour, and signed off.

I turned off the voice-scriber I had been using and went to fetch my cloak. Deep gray and voluminous, it would conceal me from prying eyes. I shrugged it on and left my quarters, wondering if Lyta's trouble and whatever was bothering John were related—and if so, how serious it was.

**ooOoo**

She met me in a tavern one corridor and a left turn away from the lift. The place was shabby but reasonably clean, though enough letters from its neon sign were either broken or burned out that its name was no longer readable. I headed toward the secluded corner where she sat at a rickety table. Two ceramic mugs and a pot graced it, the latter with a chipped handle. "I ordered tea," she murmured as I sat down. "God knows what it'll taste like, but we'll look normal if we're drinking something."

I nodded and thanked her as she poured. "You said you need my help. What do you wish me to do?"

She smiled, and the strain in her face eased a fraction. "That's what I liked about you two years ago. No extraneous questions. The first words out of a human's mouth right now would be, 'Why are you in trouble?'"

I shrugged and lifted my tea mug. "If you wished me to know, you would tell me."

She let out a slow breath and cradled her own mug, as if taking comfort from its warmth. "It's complicated. I'd rather not go into it until it's all sorted out. For now, let's just say I'm not here officially—and someone's unhappy about that. Unhappy enough to try to kill me—only I don't know who. Which means I don't know who I can trust. Except you."

"And you also knew I would not ask extraneous questions," I said with a small smile.

"There is that," she said, and sipped tea.

I took a cautious sip of my own and flinched. Hot and bitter, the stuff tasted as if it might burn rust off a flyer. "So you trust me to do what?"

"Deliver a message. To Captain Sheridan. He's got people looking for me right now."

I set down my cup. Curiosity, easily held at bay before, surged up; it was difficult to keep from asking "extraneous questions" now that I knew John was involved. Out of respect for Lyta, I managed it. "And the message is…?"

"Tell him I'm willing to come back, but only if all of them are present. All of the command staff, I mean. I don't want to be alone with any of them."

_Why_, I wondered, and almost asked it aloud. A quirk of her lips told me she had heard it anyway. "You're not a teep," she said. "Doesn't count."

I pushed my tea aside. "I will tell Captain Sheridan as soon as I find him."

She nodded, looking strained again. "I'll need to keep moving; I'll call you in an hour, then an hour after that if I need to."

"Come back with me," I said. "You look as if you could use some rest—and there is excellent security in the ambassadors' wing."

She shook her head. "We might be spotted. And I don't want to risk bringing you trouble any more than I have already."

"You might well be 'spotted' down here," I told her. "If you do not know who is after you, then you do not know what resources they have. For the minor risk of coming with me now, you will at least be more comfortable—and, once we are there, less exposed."

She considered, then nodded and rose. "I'll admit, the prospect of a night's sleep in a safe place has its attractions. Lead the way."

**ooOoo**

We reached my quarters without incident, and I made Lyta some drinkable tea. "I will go and find Sheridan now," I said. "But first I will call Lennier. He can stay with you until I return."

"I remember him," she said slowly. "Your aide. He'll be discreet."

"As you say, he is the soul of it," I said as I placed the call.

Lennier arrived within minutes and bowed to Lyta. "Lyta Alexander. An honor to see you again."

"Likewise," she said, returning the bow.

"Lyta is in some… difficulties," I told him. Then, with a glance toward her: "We thought it prudent that she not be alone for the next several hours. I must find the captain; please stay with her until I come back."

Lennier's eyes widened slightly. "There is danger?"

"Possibly."

He squared his shoulders and turned toward her. "From this moment, you are under my protection. I will not fail you, should the need arise."

He missed the brief glint of humor in her eyes at his solemnity—but the gratitude that went with it was unmistakable. "Thank you, Lennier. I just may get through this after all."

I left to find John, secure in the knowledge that Lyta was in good hands.

**ooOoo**

I found him within the hour, on his way through the Zocalo in a hurry somewhere. That he said as much did not discourage me from following him into the nearest lift and passing on Lyta's message. He left me, one level later, with a message of his own: "Tell her we'll meet her anytime, anywhere she wants." When I relayed this to Lyta, she relaxed fully for the first time that night. Then she settled herself on my couch for a few hours of badly needed sleep.

I accompanied her to John's office the next morning, then left them to it. Not until well in the afternoon did I learn what had happened there, when Lyta came by to tell me. "There was a mole," she said, then halted at what must have been my look of confusion.

Indeed, the term "mole" puzzled me. "A… small, burrowing rodent? But what does that—"

She pursed her lips, and I saw she was trying not to laugh. "No. Sorry—it's an idiom. A mole is a spy, secretly gathering information from inside one group of people with the intent of betraying them to others."

"Ah." I saw what she meant, and didn't like it. "And you thought it was one of the command staff."

"Yeah. Turned out not to be, but I couldn't take chances." She sighed and ran a hand through her short, reddish hair. "The hell of it is, she didn't even know. The mole was an alternate personality, deep-programmed into her mind. The Psi Cops were working on that kind of psychic conditioning for years, starting back when I interned with them. That's one of the reasons I got out. Took them a while to perfect the program—and they decided to test it up here. I found out how to trigger the alternate personality, and…" She shrugged. "Anyway, it's over. Thank god."

"Who was it?"

"Talia Winters." She looked depressed as she said it. "I knew her in Psi Corps years ago; we roomed together for awhile. Sweet girl—at least until they got through with her."

"Then this… alternate personality… it is permanent?"

"Far as I know." Her faint smile didn't reach her eyes. "Maybe I'll turn out to be wrong, and Talia'll come back someday."

The ugliness of what had been done to Ms. Winters chilled me. She and Susan had recently become friends, I recalled; I wondered how Susan was coping. Then another thought struck me. "If you were in the Psi Corps…"

She was shaking her head before I finished speaking. "I can't tell you anything about them nowadays. I went into commercial work a long time ago. So if you're wondering whether they're in bed with the Shadows—I don't know. Though it wouldn't surprise me."

Her mention of the Shadows was startling. "You know of them?"

She nodded. "Kosh told me. That's my one bit of good news—I'm back here officially, at least for awhile. Ambassador Kosh requested my services as an aide, and I accepted."

"Congratulations." Her announcement pleased me; it felt right, somehow, that she should have a part in what was coming. Then I sobered. "Though perhaps I should not say that. It will not be an easy assignment. Things will, as you say, get 'interesting.' And likely sooner than later."

"I don't mind," she said. "There's a lot of darkness on Earth right now. I like the idea of bringing back a little light. It's worth the risks."

She was a brave woman, I thought as she bade me farewell and went off to find Kosh. They all were—the humans we had once scorned, and all the other races that were joining the Anla'shok to fight for something larger than themselves or their own. I felt proud, and humbled, to count myself among them.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: **The usual. Certain dialogue is quoted from "The Long Twilight Struggle"; gapfiller scenes are my own.

**Part 20—Forging and Breaking**

Draal's unexpected appearance during my morning meditation, a few days after Lyta's dramatic arrival, reinforced my feeling of something momentous approaching. I had seen little of him since his merge with the Great Machine in the heart of Epsilon Three, except for the occasional holographic visit to share with me some tidbit the machine had shown him that he simply could not keep to himself. Now he wished to meet John, he said—the time for mere observation was over. "I have done enough learning," his holographic self boomed. His voice echoed off the walls of my sitting room. "Now it is time to act."

"You? Enough learning?" I couldn't resist teasing him. I had missed my old teacher; I felt glad to see him again, even though his presence meant things were coming to a danger point.

He pretended to scowl at me, then grinned. "I shall go and see Sheridan…" He trailed off, with a vague look on his face as if listening to some distant sound. Then the grin came back. "…now. Yes—this should be perfect timing. Until we meet again, Delenn. Make it soon." His image glowed bright gold, then disappeared.

I snuffed out my meditation candle and hurried to dress. With Draal, _soon_ meant _as close to now as possible_.

**ooOoo**

Garibaldi was not pleased, being suspicious by nature, but when Ivanova confirmed that Draal's holographic transmission was genuine, he had no choice but to let us go down to the planet. Unescorted, which he also objected to. I had only been inside the tunnels of Epsilon Three once, and initially I was a little lost. Not that I admitted it. When John asked if I knew where we were going, I answered him in quite definite terms that I had heard him use on occasion: "Absofragginglutely, dammit." He looked startled, but made little further comment. I was certain I had used the emphasis words in their proper context, and did not know why they should startle him—but then we turned a corner and saw before us a vast chamber, with a narrow bridge across a chasm surrounded by conduits and lights and oddly beautiful alien machinery, and we both forgot nearly everything else.

"I may never go home," John breathed softly, and for a moment I glimpsed in him the boy he had been. An explorer, a seeker, open to and curious about everything new. _A kindred spirit_, I thought, and felt the truth of it deep within.

We found Draal soon afterward, and—as I had expected—he offered John an alliance. Having some sense now of what was coming, John gladly accepted. We were walking back to our shuttle when, in mid-sentence, Draal staggered and leaned against the wall. He recovered swiftly, but was clearly shaken. We must go, he said—John was needed back on the station. _It's time you introduced him to the others,_ he told me. The Anla'shok, he meant. I had expected to feel anxious—if it was time to reveal their existence to John, then our day of reckoning was that much closer—but instead, calmness settled over me. I sensed things moving into place, creating a pattern I could almost recognize.

"Others?" John asked when I caught up to him, after bidding Draal an affectionate farewell.

I touched his arm. "It will take some time to gather them. I will tell you when we are ready."

The moment we were within communication range of the station, Ivanova told us the terrible news. The Centauri had launched an all-out assault on the Narn homeworld, which was virtually defenseless. Official word had not reached Babylon Five yet, but Susan had her sources. She always did. The sooner we got home, she said, the better.

_Home_, I thought as our shuttle approached the station. The Shadows were backing the Centauri—I knew it, had known it for some time. Thanks to recent events, John knew or guessed it, too. The great darkness was upon us; the fall of Narn was merely an opening gambit. As I watched Babylon Five grow larger on the viewscreen, I wondered how long this fragile-looking home of ours could endure.

**ooOoo**

Four days passed. Four agonizing days, in which the battered, bleeding, dying Narns refused to surrender to the Centauri bombardment. Their cities leveled, their dead in the millions, still they would not give in. I shuddered at the thought of what G'Kar must be going through. He was suffering terribly, and he did not know the worst of it.

I did. And a selfish, craven part of me hoped I would never have to tell him.

The Grey Council filed an official protest with the Centauri government that they knew would be ignored. Having made that empty gesture, they washed their hands of the affair. I thought of what Dukhat would have said, about such shameful turning away from the troubles of others, and wished I dared go to the Council and give them the tongue-lashing they deserved. Someone, as he had told me so long before, needed to tell them they were doing a foolish thing… but there was no one to do that now. Earth's government filed an equally empty protest, but President Clark cared less than nothing for what he termed the "petty squabbles" of non-human races. If anything, the war served his purposes, allowing him to turn humanity's attention toward alleged outward threats so they did not notice the creeping darkness within. A portion of that darkness had touched us, in the recent presence of the Night Watch—but for the most part, Babylon Five was left alone. For the moment.

On the fifth day, the Narns surrendered. And Londo Mollari convened a full meeting of the Advisory Council and the League of Non-Aligned Worlds. To gloat, and to intimidate. The Centauri had returned to glory with a vengeance; Londo meant to make certain everyone knew it. Especially G'Kar.

The terms of the surrender were as harsh as I feared. Narn was reduced to a Centauri colony; any act of resistance by the Narns that killed a Centauri would cost five hundred Narn lives, including the entire family of the alleged perpetrator. The Ka'Ri, Narn's ruling body, were subject to arrest and trial for war crimes—including G'Kar, as one of them. At this, John spoke up. G'Kar had asked sanctuary of him, he said with fiercely controlled anger, and he had given it. There would be no arrest; G'Kar was safe aboard Babylon Five for as long as he cared to stay.

I backed him at once, pledging the support of the Minbari government. (I did not have it, but I would get it, or the Grey Council would rue the day they refused me.) Londo was furious. He ranted, but John and I stood our ground. As Babylon Five's military governor, John had sole authority to make such a decision, and Londo could not sway him. Meanwhile, I watched G'Kar. He sat slumped in a chair to one side, so still he scarcely seemed to be breathing. His gaze was fixed on the floor. What he was seeing, I could only imagine. The near-death of his homeworld as mass drivers pounded it to rubble, the bodies stacked like firewood in the ruined streets… I shivered and turned away. I felt responsible, and could not watch him any longer.

Unable to have G'Kar remanded to custody for transport to Narn and a mocked-up trial that would end in execution, Londo settled for what he could get. In tones of icy rage, he stripped G'Kar of his rank and honors, declaring him a mere "citizen" of the Narn Protectorate. Then he demanded G'Kar's immediate expulsion from the council room.

I had not felt such anger toward Mollari ever before, nor have I since. John spoke a heartbeat before I could: "We will wait until—"

"Now!" Mollari shouted.

In the silence that followed, G'Kar slowly stood. He began to speak, each word chosen with care. _"No dictator… no invader…can hold an imprisoned population by force of arms forever. There is no greater power in the Universe than the need to be free. Against that power, governments and armies of tyrants cannot stand. The Centauri learned this lesson once. We will teach it to them again."_ He paused, then delivered one final sentence with biting force. _"Though it take a thousand years, we will be free."_

He was magnificent, standing there—a tower of quiet strength, heart sorely wounded but spirit undefeated. His eloquence and dignity humbled me. I would not have expected them from the touchy, prideful Narn ambassador I had first met nearly two years ago. Even Londo was affected; beneath the shocked fury G'Kar's bold words had roused, I saw a glimmer of regret for the injustice he had done.

G'Kar left the room then, step by slow step. Not until he was gone did anyone speak again.

"Any attempt to interfere with _Ambassador_ G'Kar in any way will not be tolerated," John said, through gritted teeth. "This meeting is adjourned." He picked up his gavel and slammed it down. Londo drew breath as if to protest, but one look at John's face made him think better of it. He left, and the League ambassadors followed in his wake.

When everyone else was gone, John turned to me. His eyes were stormy, troubled. I touched his hand; he turned it palm upward and clasped my fingers. Neither of us spoke. What was there to say?

**ooOoo**

Three hours later, the Anla'shok on-station and in close transit had arrived. Garibaldi and I gathered them in the conference center and presented them to John. He rose to the occasion with an eloquence that matched G'Kar's. Babylon Five, he told them, would be a fortress of light against the darkness—the place where we drew the line against all those bent on the destruction of others. As I listened, I felt as if I would follow him into anything. Into fire, into darkness, into any danger—so long as he was with me, I would meet what came with courage and honor. It was a gift he had, to rouse this in others—to make them believe they were braver, bolder, stronger than they thought, and could do more than they ever dreamed. The Universe had chosen him for this. And I—I loved him for it, then and always.

Later that evening, he came by my quarters. There was little trace of the eloquent, bold commander in him as he walked in and stood fidgeting in the middle of the sitting-room. Fatigue bent his shoulders, and when he sat beside me on the sofa, I saw weariness and worry in his eyes. "I'm not even sure why I'm here," he said as I poured us both tea. "I guess… I just need someone to talk to." A flash of humor crossed his face. "And you're a lot prettier than Kosh."

I was glad for the low lights; they hid my blush. _He called me pretty…_ "You have only to ask. I am glad to be of help." And then I felt foolish; what a stilted way of putting it, and what a poor, pale reflection of what lay in my heart.

He smiled at me, as if he had not found my words foolish or stilted in the slightest. "It helps just being here."

I could see the truth of that. Already, the tension in him was beginning to ease. "You spoke well today."

He shrugged. "I talked a good game. We'll see what happens when things really hit the air-recycler unit."

"John." I turned to face him and took his hands. "You were meant to do this. I know it. Kosh knows it. The Universe knows it. Don't doubt yourself so."

He gazed down at our interlaced fingers. "I just… I've never fought legends before." When he looked up, the uncertainty in his face made my throat ache. "I'm a plain soldier, Delenn. A pilot, a ship's captain who ended up flying a desk and running a city in space through a fluke. I've done all right here so far, but every other damned day I feel so completely in over my head… If it weren't for Ivanova and Garibaldi and the rest of the command staff, I'd be sunk." His grip tightened. "What if you're wrong about me? What if I'm not up to this?"

Now it was my turn to glance down at our hands. My own were nearly lost in his—delicate and fragile-looking, enveloped by his strength. And giving him strength in turn. The thought came to me that we had done this before, and would do it again—be each other's strength, especially when we needed it most. The sense of connection between us, there ever since I first saw him aboard the _Valen'tha_, ran stronger and deeper now. I could feel the thrumming vibration of it, like the bass note of a chord.

"Do you remember a conversation we had… oh, months ago now… about the Universe putting us in places where we can learn? Where we are meant to be?"

He smiled a little. "I remember. 'We are all star stuff,' you said."

"We are. You are, right at this moment as you sit here, worried to death and almost too tired to think. And because you are too tired to think, you don't remember what you are not. Even though it is very important."

"And what's that?" There was laughter in his voice, but also confusion. He had no idea what I was getting at, but was willing to indulge me. "What very important thing am I not?"

"Alone." I held his gaze, willing him to understand.

He looked puzzled. Then understanding came… and the warmth in his eyes filled my soul with light. He let out a long sigh, as if setting down a burden. "Thank you," he said. Simple words, but he spoke them as if he meant much more.

We talked for a long while after that, while our untouched tea grew cold. He wanted to know more about the Rangers, about Sinclair's role and Garibaldi's, about the writings of Valen in the last Shadow War. All through our conversation, the chord between us kept humming. Deeper, richer, as if every moment we spent together added to it. We kept holding hands, neither of us wanting to let go.

When he finally left, with a quiet, "Sleep well, Delenn," I felt happier than I had any right to. I should have been terrified, considering what we faced—but my mind and heart were so full of John, there was no room for fear or doubt.

I cleared away the teacups and went to bed, wishing Mayan were here so I could tell her about it.


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: **Yes, this covers "Comes the Inquisitor". I've always wanted to explore Delenn's subtext for that episode—especially the latter part, where John is on the rack and Delenn is "offstage" (just before she drags herself into the room screaming "Stop!" at Sebastian). This is my answer to what was going through her mind before, during and after. (Dialogue is also quoted from Season 2's final episode.)

**Part 21—Tribulations**

I recalled that late-night conversation with bitter irony some days later, when Kosh informed me that an Inquisitor was coming. For me, to judge my fitness for the task ahead. I had told John not to doubt, but now doubt took up residence in me. Kosh spoke to me with a remoteness I had never seen in him—as if we were not allies and colleagues, but strangers. That frightened me more than the knowledge of the Inquisitor, even though the few legends I had read about them called them ruthless in pursuit of their goal. _The Inquisitor is a finely balanced denn'bok poised to crush delusion with a single blow_, one account read. That phrase stuck in my mind, all the way down to the isolated chamber in Grey Sector that John had provided for our encounter.

He had not been easy with it, especially as I could tell him so little. He did not know what it cost me even to tell him as much as I did. Lennier insisted Kosh merely wished "confirmation" that his choice of me was correct—but that was his kindness speaking. To confess Kosh's doubts came very near to confessing my own… and I did not want anyone to know how uncertain I was. I had to be strong—strong and certain, so that those around me would not lose heart. So many lives depended on my strength of purpose, my faith in the prophecies—and I had given up so much already. To admit doubt now made a mockery of my sacrifices, and those of others. The Narns and their dead homeworld. Anna Sheridan and the other humans on the _Icarus_, slain because they would not serve the Shadows. Even the Centauri, who had made what humans call "a deal with the devil," and did not yet realize the price they would pay.

For all these and more, I must keep faith. No matter what the Inquisitor demanded of me.

**ooOoo**

I am not sure, even now, how I survived the ordeal. The Inquisitor, Sebastian, had eyes without depth and a heart of pure ice. He was, as the accounts said, ruthless—and determined to break me of what he termed my delusion of destiny.

Hour after hour of questions—and searing pain, induced along my nerves through a mechanism in the heavy bracelets he gave me to wear and in the cane he carried, when he did not like my answers. I tried at first to guess what he wanted, but soon gave that up. The pain made it impossible to think, and his scornful, bony face was hard to read. My only recourse was honesty—and if Sebastian did not wish to hear what I had to say, then I simply had to endure. _Call out_, _Delenn_, he said to me once. _Call out to the Universe. If it hears you, surely it will respond._ As if the Universe that formed me, and every other part of itself, were a thing I could command. A servant sworn to do as I wished, a toy I could play with as I chose. When I did not call out, he gave me pain until a cry tore itself from my throat. Then he mocked the ensuing silence—and for the first time since coming before him, I knew fear. What did he want of me? What did Kosh want of me? How was I to pass this test if I did not know the rules?

All I had was honesty and the capacity to endure. I did not know if they would be enough.

Sebastian permitted me a few brief rests—as rewards, he said when I answered to his liking, though I could not see any difference between the answers he liked and those for which he punished me. Lennier came to me during one of these "rests"; not until I saw his worried face did I realize how long I must have been here. He was shocked at the sight of me, huddled on the deck from sheer exhaustion, and determined to come to my rescue; I had to beg him to leave without me. I could not end this by giving up—I would fail him, fail myself, fail everyone. And I could not permit him to remain. For all I knew, Sebastian would kill him. Enough living beings had died because of me in the Earth-Minbari War—I could not let it happen to anyone else. Especially not to Lennier, my aide and student who had proved himself such a steadfast and loyal friend.

He left me, finally, as the hollow tapping of Sebastian's cane drew closer. With Sebastian's return, my ordeal began again. Question, answer, pain. Question, silence, pain. Question, answer… acceptance, and a brief pause to rest. Just long enough for me to hope that perhaps _this_ answer was finally good enough.

It wasn't. Again, he returned; again, it began. Soon, I could no longer stand. Burning waves of pain drove me to my knees, then flat to the deck. This time, I could not get up. Every nerve, every muscle, was in constant agony; I knew when he inflicted fresh pain only because it flared up like a funeral pyre. I wondered if I would die here, and if that meant Kosh was right to fear I was not strong enough for the task ahead. Sebastian had threatened to kill me, had held my heartbeat in his hand. I had watched him close that hand, felt my heart slow and waver in response. Yet even mortal terror could not make me say what he seemed to wish: that I was wrong, that I had no destiny, that I was deluded ever to have thought so. Doubt I had, and had confessed it to him—but doubt is not the same as unbelief. He had come to disabuse me of one certainty and now seemed to want another. If I lied and claimed it simply to avoid more torture, I would cease to be Delenn. And then what? Would I be, as he said, merely the nail that gets hammered down? Broken, useless, of no worth to anyone?

Sebastian was speaking. I could not understand him at first; I was in too much pain. Something about things not working out, but it wasn't my fault. He was kneeling by my head, gazing down at me where I lay on the cold deck, his face blank and empty.

"You were doomed from the moment of your birth," he said.

Was I? But that would be a destiny of sorts, and he claimed I had none… A sound at the hatch broke through my sluggish thoughts. Sebastian spoke now with cold satisfaction: "And the final player in our little drama arrives at last."

"Leave her alone!" John. A chill swept through my aching body. Lennier must have gone to him, told him… And now he was risking himself. For me.

"Why?" Sebastian's tone held danger. _John, no,_ I thought. _Go away, leave me, he'll kill you!_ I couldn't say it. Couldn't make a sound.

"Just do it!" John again. _Go,_ I thought desperately. _Please…_

"What is she to you?"

The brief silence was broken only by the sound of footsteps as John came further into the room. I struggled to speak, to warn him away. My voice would not respond.

"I don't have to answer your questions," he said.

"No. You don't."

A muffled, hollow clang as Sebastian struck the deck with the base of his cane. The air crackled; I heard a grunt of pain and a thud as John's body struck the bulkhead. Something clattered to the floor—too small to be the cane. A gun?

Sebastian again, his voice like frozen crystal. "Your turn now."

I fought to move, to save John—and could not. I lay as one dead, unable even to lift my head. Despair swept over me and pulled me down into darkness.

**ooOoo**

Harsh voices woke me from my stupor. John telling Sebastian to go to hell. Sebastian replying: "This is hell, Captain. And you are its chief damned soul."

Bone-deep pain anchored me to the deck. My throat felt raw, my limbs heavy as rock. Every breath was an effort. I wanted the darkness back, wanted to drift into it and never come out again. Sebastian held John prisoner now, just as he held me. He would amuse himself inflicting pain, torturing John as he had tortured me. Then he would kill us both. Here in the dark, where no one would know until it was too late.

Unless I stopped it. If I could.

He was savaging John with words, demanding to know who he would sacrifice. I tried not to listen. Instead, I focused my attention on my left leg. _Move. Just a little. A fingerspan. Move…_

Somewhere below my knee, a muscle twitched. Then nothing.

Sebastian's voice rose. He was hurling words like stones now, each one accompanied by the crack of an energy pulse. I knew what that sound meant. He was hurting John, inflicting agony through nerve induction. I could hear John's muffled cries, forced through gritted teeth. Each one made me flinch as if the pain were my own.

_Get up,_ I told myself. _Get off this floor. Now. Get up and stop him_! I gathered all my strength, concentrated on rolling over just enough to draw a leg or an arm beneath me.

My muscles spasmed as if a knife had been plunged between my shoulder blades. I ignored the new source of pain. _Move. Roll. Get up._

My body shifted. I drew my left arm inward, leaned on it. Pushed up. Fell. Pushed up again.

Sebastian was shouting now: "_What about your god? What about truth? What about blood?_" His words came louder, faster, the end of every question punctuated with a harsh crack and a grunt of pain.

One leg moved. Then the other. Both beneath me now. Once more, I gathered my fading strength. Sebastian was raging, using words like killing blows from a denn'bok: "_What about fate, what about sin, what about hell, what about death, what about—_"

Terror and fury brought me to my feet. I lurched forward. Heard my own voice screaming for him to stop.

Sebastian froze. The image seared itself in my mind: the Inquisitor motionless with his back to me, cane raised to inflict more punishment; John manacled to a metal frame, sweating and pale and barely able to stay upright. Words came to me from someplace deep within: "Your quarrel is with me. You were sent to investigate me. Let him go. If you want to take someone, then take me!"

"Well, well." Sebastian's scorn was rich. "A mutual admiration and sacrificial society. And what is he to you?"

As if he had any right to know. "None of your concern!"

John broke in, sounding ragged with pain and fatigue. "Don't listen to him, Delenn. Just get the hell out of here, now! Go on!"

I couldn't do that. Wouldn't have, even if Sebastian had not forestalled me by threatening John's life if I made so much as a gesture. His life or mine, Sebastian said—and I felt a fierce, hard joy despite the exhaustion that once more forced me to my knees. He had shown me a way to save John. That was all I wanted now.

He must have read my thought in my face. "You would trade your life for his? I thought you had a destiny. Is that destiny not worth one life?"

I dragged myself upright and staggered toward him. What I had to say now, I would say on my feet. I would hurl _my_ words at _him_ like stones, force him to hear their truth. "If I fall, another will take my place. And another. And another!"

"But your great cause—?"

"_This_ is my cause! Life! One life or a billion, it's all the same!"

His look was avid, predatory. "Then you make this sacrifice willingly?"

"Yes." _Yes, by the Universe and all the sacred beings that ever were. Anything to let John live._

"No fame, no armies or banners or cities to celebrate your name… you will die alone and unremarked… and forgotten."

I could see John behind the Inquisitor, shoulders sagging and head bowed. He had meant to save me, but I could not let him. No one would die for me, least of all this man I had come to love so much. Sharp regret that I could never tell him made my eyes sting, but I would not be swayed. He would live; that was all that mattered.

Calm settled over me as I answered the Inquisitor, my words less for him than for John. "This body is only a shell. You cannot touch me. You cannot harm me. I am not afraid."

He came close to me then, with a light in his eyes I couldn't interpret. Triumph? Wonder? He raised his cane. The crystal tip of it glowed impossibly bright—

Then he was gone. And I… I was still in the dusty, shadowed, deserted room.

No. Not deserted. John was here with me.

The manacles that held him prisoner had vanished along with the Inquisitor. My own instruments of torture—the heavy metal bracelets—were gone as well. I stared at my empty wrists, then at John. I could not quite believe I was still alive, still here—and with him. Who was also alive, and here, and…

I moved without conscious thought. I needed to touch him, hold him. Needed to be certain this was not some delirium in the final moments before my soul left my body.

He caught my hands, drew me close and held me hard. I clung to him, shaking with fatigue and relief. He smelled musky; his shirt was damp with sweat. After a moment, he held me away from him just far enough to look me in the eye. "Are you all right? Huh?"

I managed to nod. My bones ached, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could stay standing; but I was alive, and he was alive, and we were together. _All right_ was, as humans say, an understatement. "What… what happened?"

"I don't know." He sounded as wrung-out as I felt. I laid my hand over his heart, a Minbari gesture of affection; he smoothed my hair back and gently touched my face. There was something in his eyes… a tenderness, a protectiveness, that I had not seen before.

"Come on," he said, and turned so I could lean against him. Arms anchored around one another, we slowly moved toward the hatchway. Where Sebastian had gone, we did not know. Nor did we care to linger and find out.

We were halfway to the open hatch when we heard the cane tapping. Sebastian appeared, blocking our exit. John's arms tightened around me, and I knew he meant to shield me if he could. My heart pounded against my ribs. What now?

"You can go," Sebastian said. "You've passed. Both of you."

Both of us? But Kosh had not said… Then I looked at Sebastian's face, and realized how little I understood of what I had undergone. His eyes, hard and flat before, held something in them now I would not have expected to see. Relief, and the echo of anguish so old I could not read its depths.

He had spent centuries in the Vorlons' service looking for us, he said. Looking for those willing to die, not for a cause or glory or fame, but for one person. In the dark, all alone, where no one would know or see. Because we were willing to do this for each other, John and I had proved we were the right people in the right place at the right time. And because of that, we might yet save the lives of countless others.

I heard his words, but paid them less heed than I did his face. He was ancient, and tired, and he carried guilt for something so terrible even centuries of service could not expiate it to his satisfaction. I knew what that kind of guilt felt like. He looked at us while he spoke as if we had given him a precious gift—an end to a long existence he despised, whose weight was slowly crushing him.

He finished speaking, bowed and left us. As the sound of his cane receded, John hugged me close again. "Can you walk?"

"Yes." Walk? I could run, dance, sprout wings and fly. We were alive and together and meant to be so. And the way he held me…

I felt a soft warmth as his lips brushed my forehead. A kiss. He had kissed me. Oh, I could soar to the stars on that. "Let's get you home," he said.

_I am already home_, I thought as we left our prison chamber behind.

**ooOoo**

The year ended as dramatically as it began, with Kosh rescuing John from certain death as he plunged toward the ground from an exploded core shuttle car several thousand feet in the air. I saw this from the gardens, where the station's dignitaries had gathered to witness Captain Sheridan's formal apology to Londo Mollari. A Centauri warship bent on capturing and destroying the last remaining Narn heavy cruiser had foolishly opened fire on Babylon Five in pursuit of its objective; John rightly defended the station, reducing the Centauri vessel to debris in the process. The Centauri were furious, as was Earth's government; they had just signed a non-aggression pact with the Centauri, which made John's action highly inconvenient. As the alternative to firing back would have been to risk the lives of a quarter of a million civilians, an apology was the best the Centauri could get.

Afterward, I stopped by John's quarters to see how he was. (Really, it was more to reassure myself that he _had_ been saved; the depths of my terror as I saw him falling would give me nightmares for days afterward.) The sight of him, out of his dress jacket and sipping coffee as though it were any ordinary afternoon, made it difficult to keep from throwing myself across the room at him in sheer relief. I managed to keep composure and simply let him speak, which he clearly needed to do. "The whole station's talking about what happened," he said. "Every race that was in the garden saw something different, yet the same. A being of light."

"Yes. Each according to his or her type."

"But it was Kosh, wasn't it? That's what you meant when you said that if he left his encounter suit, he'd be recognized by… everybody."

I nodded. I was moved by what Kosh had done, the risk he had taken. I knew he would not have let John die, but the Shadows might well take his appearance as a signal to step up the conflict. And we still were not ready for them.

I took refuge from creeping anxiety, as I often did, in teaching a small lesson. "For millions of years, the Vorlons have visited other worlds… guided them and—"

"Manipulated us? Programmed us so that when we saw them, we'd react the right way?"

Tales of Valen's first appearance, flanked by two Vorlons of shimmering gold, came to mind. "It is, as you say, a matter of perspective. What matters is that he has revealed himself to those who understand—you, me… and those who have been watching. The Shadows will know what Kosh has done. They will worry, afraid that he would not reveal himself unless the Vorlons were prepared to stand against them." I felt chilled as the words left my mouth. So great a risk… yet there had been no other choice.

He caught my mood and looked grim. "Are they?"

"I do not think so. But as long as the Shadows believe the rest of us are unaware of their existence, we have time to prepare." I sounded as if I were trying to convince myself, and hoped he hadn't noticed. After his near-death today, the last thing John needed was a fresh worry—especially one he could do nothing about.

"Well, let's just hope nobody finds out about them until—"

The Babcom unit flickered to life; Ivanova's sober face appeared on the screen. "Captain, Zeta Squad just got back. Lieutenant Keffer is missing."

Keffer. The name was familiar. Then I remembered why. I looked at John and read my own apprehension in his face. He looked back at the screen. "You debrief the squad yet?"

"I was just about to," she said. "I'll let you know what they say."

He nodded, and the screen went black.

The silence felt heavy. "Where were they?" I asked him, when I found my voice again.

"Hyperspace. Escorting the Narn cruiser to safety." He pushed his coffee cup aside, then plucked an orange from a nearby bowl and rolled it between his palms. "Could Keffer have run across… I mean, he's been chasing something 'weird' he swore was out there for awhile now…"

"Yes." I found myself staring at a spot on the far wall, though I could not have described it in that moment if I had been asked. "Yes, he could have."

Neither of us voiced what we feared most—that Lieutenant Keffer had paid for his curiosity with his life. Or that the Shadows might now have even more reason to quickly move against us.

He took a deep breath, then let it out. I could see him putting his fear aside, willing his mind away from what we both knew could not be helped. Whatever had happened to Keffer, had happened. Until we knew more, there was nothing to be done.

He managed half a smile for me and began peeling his orange. The sharp, sweet scent of it rose in the air. "So… what did you see in the garden?"

His discarded coffee cup was within reach. I toyed with the handle of it until the memory of wonder overcame anxiety. "Valeria. The greatest soul among the Minbari before the coming of Valen. She was a healer, a teacher. Founder of the Sisterhood that was our first step out of the endless clan wars that decimated our people." I gave him a wry smile. "We have said for a thousand years that Minbari do not kill Minbari. But that was not always so. Some clans were wiped out in those ancient wars, or left so few in number that other clans absorbed them. It was a dark time."

"We humans have had our share of those." He broke off a section of orange and offered it to me. When I took it, our fingers brushed. A spark flashed through me; I felt suddenly, sharply aware of him. The faint spicy scent of his skin, the shape of his muscles under his shirt, his hair gleaming where the light touched it. The lingering warmth of his fingertips on mine.

I ducked my head and half-turned away, praying my face had not betrayed me. The orange segment I held suddenly seemed terribly important. I broke it in two and ate a piece. When I dared glance back toward John, I saw him smiling at me. "You know what I think?"

"What?" My voice was hardly more than a whisper.

He was grinning widely now—the smile I loved best, that made him look like a boy ten summers old. "I think I should take you to dinner. And you can tell me some more about Valeria. Or anything else you'd like."

The worries of moments ago vanished. I felt as if I were falling, drifting to solid ground as a bright angel held me. "I cannot think of anything I would like more."


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note: **This chapter covers the Season 3 episode, "Matters of Honor". Significant dialogue is taken from that episode; as usual, the subtext (and any additions) are my own.

**Part 22—Into the Maelstrom**

The Earth year 2260 soon proved as dramatic as its predecessor. We had a few days of relative calm; then events rushed upon us as if driven by a blizzard wind. Beginning with the first White Star and a skirmish with the Shadows, they gathered force and speed, sweeping us toward a confrontation that would cost us dearly—myself (or so it seemed then) most of all.

But that was yet to come. I spent those quiet days keeping track of the White Star fleet and the Anla'shok, and depending on Lennier to keep me sane in my role as Minbari ambassador to Babylon Five. And puzzling over the conundrum of John—my feelings for him, his for me, and what (if anything) to do about them. I felt out of my depth, almost as much as when I first boarded the _Valen'tha _so many years ago. Now, as then, I was not certain who to turn to. I did not know how to read John, or if I could trust what appeared as more than friendship. He loved his wife, and had lost her; was that wound beginning to heal? And did I have any right to hope that I was part of the reason?

I had no one of whom I could ask these questions. Lennier was my aide and protégé; to broach something so personal with him would be highly inappropriate. And useless as well, he being even less schooled in the ways of human males than I. Stephen and Garibaldi were men, and this matter needed a woman's perspective. I thought of Susan then; our friendship, begun over my struggles with my hair, had only deepened since. Susan proved an invaluable teacher about hair, and other aspects of being partly human that I otherwise would have found hopelessly confusing. What I most wanted to know now, however, I was afraid to ask her. She had not seemed to mind about the dinner date, but she often treated John as a favorite elder brother, and I wondered if she might feel protective of him when it came to romantic entanglements. Or perhaps I was simply afraid to find out that my secret hopes were mere illusion. In the end, I buried my feelings as best I could. We were in the midst of war, after all. I should keep my attention on our preparations and on events. Concerns of the heart were a distraction, and a selfish one at that.

Yet I kept returning to that kiss, in the wake of the Inquisitor's departure. How John had held me, looked at me… as if I meant far more to him than he had known until just then. I thought of it in unguarded moments—in meditation, before sleep, upon waking. Sometimes even when I was with him, in the middle of an ordinary conversation. I would suddenly stumble through words, or fall silent for no good reason. I was not the only one, I realized before long. It was happening to him, too. And I wondered, and hoped, and told myself I was being foolish… and kept hoping anyway.

Seven days into the new year, Sinclair contacted me with some long-awaited good news—the first of the White Stars was fully operational and had left the shipyard for a pre-arranged rendezvous point. Sinclair had scarcely signed off when Ivanova called, requesting my presence in John's office. A Mr. Endawi, from Earth's government, had arrived a short while ago and wished to speak with me. Immediately. "He said it's urgent," Ivanova told me. "And he looks worried. He only got here fifteen minutes ago, and asked to see you right away."

"I will be there."

She signed off. I left my quarters, puzzled and uneasy. Relations between Minbar and Earth had been smooth for some time now; I could think of no bone of contention, despite Morgan Clark's distaste for "aliens." Thus far, he seemed more preoccupied with consolidating his political hold on Earth than with making trouble for my people, or any other non-human race. Why then was Mr. Endawi here, now? As I neared John's office, my apprehension grew. I could think of only one thing urgent enough for an envoy from Earth to request my presence virtually upon his arrival. I very much hoped I was wrong.

Endawi—slender and dark-skinned, with a lilting accent—greeted me pleasantly, though his anxiety was clear. He had wanted to speak with me first, he said, before approaching the other ambassadors, "because of our current good relations with Minbar and because, as one of the older races, you might have some knowledge of the subject at hand."

I felt an inner chill as he went to the Babcom unit and clicked a data crystal into place. "Some of you may already have seen this on ISN," Endawi said, as the screen showed the reddish-black swirl of hyperspace. An insect-like splotch of molten black hung in the center. Just for a moment, my breath came faster. I knew what it was, this image out of ancient nightmare. And I could not tell Endawi. Not if my life depended on it.

He kept speaking as we watched from around the conference table, all four of our gazes riveted on the footage in horrified fascination. The recording came from Lieutenant Keffer's gun camera; he had captured the image of his killer before it struck. John's answers about Keffer were honest, if guarded; Ivanova's, likewise. "We're playing this down back home," Endawi said to me finally, "trying to convince the public that we know what it is, where it's from and that we're not worried. But we don't have a clue. My job is to find out what you, or any of the other races, know about this ship."

I tore my gaze from the footage. It would take some doing to avoid revealing the truth without resorting to outright lies. I regretted the necessity, especially as he had given me a glimmer of hope. If, as he said, Earth's government in general didn't "have a clue," then any Shadow infiltration of Morgan Clark's regime—or Psi Corps—could not have gone very far. Which gave us a chance of stopping it before such influences could corrupt Earth's government completely. I knew John and the others hoped for this, though the knowledge did not solve my immediate dilemma. "I am sorry, Mr. Endawi. I wish I could be of some help to you…" _At least that much is true! _ "…but this is the first time I have seen a ship of this type." For a brief, searing moment I felt ashamed of my facility at parsing words. I had said nothing false, and yet everything false. It was necessary, but I didn't like it.

He leaned across the conference table. "Are you sure? Take a good look."

Had he read something in my face, or was he simply persistent? I rose and went closer to the Babcom unit. The footage of the Shadow ship replayed there in an endless loop. The oily blackness of the vessel drew the eye as a black hole draws gravity. "Yes," I said finally. "I am quite sure."

He believed me; I could see it in the sag of his shoulders as he turned to speak to John. "I assume nothing like this has entered Babylon Five space recently?"

John shook his head, carefully not looking at me. He knew I had deceived Endawi, if only obliquely; I wondered how long it would take him to comment on it. "No. Something like that, I'd recognize."

The recording continued to run as Endawi thanked me and took his leave. Ivanova accompanied him, escorting him to temporary quarters. They were barely out the door when John got up and came over to me. "A few months ago, you told me about an ancient race—the Shadows. This is one of theirs, isn't it?"

I nodded in acknowledgment. "I am sorry I could not tell him the truth. But our only chance is in allowing the Shadows to think that we are unaware of their return while we prepare our own forces."

"But you said you'd never seen one before."

The challenge in his voice was clear. He had not yet seen misdirection from me, such as Minbari can be capable of when it suits us. That my reasons were honorable made little difference; it troubled him to see me less than honest. Unhappy about it myself, I responded to his challenge in kind. "That part was true. Descriptions of these ships have come down to us from the last great war—but I have never actually seen one until this moment." I had read many such descriptions, and recalled with dread what else was in them. "These ships… once they target you, they never stop, never slow down, never give up—until they have destroyed you. They are nearly invincible."

"I don't believe that. Every ship has a weakness."

He did not name the _Black Star_, though that was what he meant. The memory of it came up nonetheless—along with an echo of the helplessness I had felt then, seeing my fragile hopes of peace die before my eyes. That echo made my answer sharper than I meant. "Believe what you will, until experience changes your mind." A pause to get myself under control; he had not deserved that of me, and I felt unequal to explaining it. Instead, I kept my gaze on the gun-camera footage. "Take a good look, John, and remember it well. _That_ is the face of our enemy."

**ooOoo**

I went back to Green Sector, with the half-formed notion of finding out what Londo might say—or already have said—to Mr. Endawi without giving my own motives away. The Universe, however, had other plans. Lennier hailed me from the hallway as I exited the lift and told me someone was looking for me. "He sent this," Lennier said, and held out his hand. Nestled in his palm was a brooch: two kneeling figures in metal, one human and one Minbari, their hands joined around an opalescent blue-green stone.

Lennier and I exchanged a look. Whoever wanted me was Anla'shok. Yet anyone here on regular Ranger business would simply have turned up on my doorstep. This had the feel of secrecy—as if the one who sought me believed himself in such danger that he could not approach me directly.

I followed Lennier down the corridor to the privacy of my quarters, where he could tell me the rest. Londo, and Mr. Endawi's questions, would have to wait.

**ooOoo**

A short while later, I found myself following Lennier again—to an establishment in Downbelow best described as what humans call a "dive." Or perhaps, as one of their old flatvids had it, "a wretched hive of scum and villainy." Stain-splotched walls and floor, ramshackle tables sparsely tenanted by ill-clad men and women with empty expressions—hardship and despair seemed built into the place, part and parcel of every square foot. We attracted little attention as we threaded our way toward a deserted table in the back, though two rough-faced humans eyed Lennier with contempt as we passed. Muffled in my hooded cloak, I drew no notice at all.

We had scarcely sat down when another human, unshaven and looking as if he had slept for days in the same garments, approached our table. He carried two slim glasses full of something, which he set down in front of us. "Drink," he said, and reached for a nearby chair.

"Thank you, no," Lennier answered, with stiff politeness. "If you please, we are waiting for someone."

The man's easy smile remained. "People come here to drink. Do you want to draw attention?" He dragged the chair over and seated himself.

Something in the way he moved—the coiled deadliness beneath his outward grace—told me who he must be. I reached for the nearest glass. Lennier eased it from my hand, sniffed it, then took a cautious sip.

"No alcohol," he said. "It is safe. Mister…?"

"Just Marcus. Of course it's safe. I know the effect it has on Minbari. But since most don't, I figured it'd help prove I was waiting for you." He leaned back in his chair, eyes locked with Lennier's. "Can I have it back now, please?"

After a moment, Lennier took the Ranger brooch from an inner pocket and handed it to him. Marcus examined it before pinning it to the dusty tunic he wore. "You know, I've heard that when these are made, they're forged in white-hot flame, then cooled in three bowls. The first is some kind of ancient holy water, the second Minbari blood, the third human blood. They say that when a Ranger dies, the figures on either side shed three tears—one of water, two of blood."

An odd thing to bring up just then, with his business still to be named and our safety in this place unassured. Beneath his casual tone, I heard tension. Fear, perhaps, or some inner pain he could not voice. "And you?" I asked, to draw him out. "Do you believe this?"

His face hardened slightly, though his smile didn't waver. Whatever his tension sprang from, it was clearly off-limits for the moment. "I stopped believing in miracles a long time ago, Ambassador. When part of the heart goes dead, it's best to leave it that way."

Tight-leashed anguish lay in those words. I glanced down, allowing Marcus a moment's privacy to shut away whatever had prompted them. He intrigued me, this human with the passionate intensity under his casual exterior. It meant something, I felt, that his path was crossing ours just now.

"I need your help, Delenn," he said quietly after a moment. "But I suggest we go someplace a little more private to discuss it." He glanced over his shoulder, then rose. "This way."

We followed him out, again attracting little attention. Or so it seemed. As I stepped through the hatchway into the outer corridor, Lennier close behind me, I felt my skin prickle. Someone was watching us with ill intent. The two rough men in the dive bar? Someone else, unseen but nearby?

"We are being followed," Lennier murmured as he passed through the hatchway.

"Yes, I know." Marcus turned the corner. And halted abruptly.

Three human males blocked our way. The fitful light in the corridor glinted off the bald skull of the one in the middle, standing a pace or so in front of the others. Tall and as broadly built as the three of us put together, he wore a thick mustache and an ugly grin. A length of heavy metal pipe rested on one shoulder. "This is my part of Downbelow," he said, his voice taut with excitement at the prospect of the violence he clearly meant to inflict. "You want to do business here, you gotta pay."

I turned my head at the sound of footsteps behind us. The two rough-faced men from the bar stepped through the hatch, blocking our retreat.

"I don't like extortion," Marcus said lightly.

The bald man tightened his grip on the pipe. "And I don't like insults."

"Funny—with a face like yours, I'd have thought you'd be used to it by now."

I felt a subtle shift from the four men surrounding us. A drawing-in of muscle and bone, a marshaling of power. They scented a fight for certain now, and were eager for it.

Their leader's eyes, gleaming with bloodlust, never left Marcus's face. "That's a bad move. All you hadda do was give us everything you got. Now, you still gotta give us everything you got—but it's gonna hurt a hell of a lot worse."

For answer, Marcus eased into a fighting stance and held up a small cylinder. His thumb moved across it, and I heard a distinctive _snick_. The denn'bok—for that was what he held—shot out to its full length. With a step forward and a flick of his wrist, Marcus slammed one end into the bald man's jaw.

Then things happened very quickly. Lennier swirled his cloak over another attacker's head, and all three of us struck out with anything available. Fists, feet, whatever weapons we could improvise. At one point the denn'bok ended up in my hands; quicker than thought, I brought it down on the head of a long-haired assailant who had grabbed Lennier from behind. Muscle memory came back to me from countless training sessions, in temple and aboard the _Valen'tha_. Step, turn, strike. Lift, turn, strike again. The long-haired thug went down and stayed there. My second blow knocked the bald one into the bulkhead; he rebounded just in time for Marcus to club him senseless with the thicker end of the metal pipe. Within seconds, all five attackers lay unconscious on the deck.

My hands, wrapped around the denn'bok, were slick with sweat. My arms ached from the unaccustomed effort, and I was breathing hard. _Out of practice_, I thought, and vowed to make time for a little sparring every day. Or at least every few days. Perhaps Lennier would…

Lennier. I looked around for him, assuring Marcus I was all right. Relief surged as I saw my aide approach; he was largely unhurt, save for a painful-looking bruise on the jaw. With a touch of reluctance, I handed Marcus back his fighting pike. It was old, clearly an heirloom weapon.

"A gift from a friend," he said as he tucked it away. "We must hurry. This way."

We left Downbelow quickly, before anything else could transpire.

**ooOoo**

Like all the Anla'shok who came to Babylon Five, Marcus knew every back way there was of getting from Downbelow to more respectable areas. We reached my quarters without incident, where I refused to let Marcus talk until he had gotten some hot tea and flatbread into him. He had fought with relative ease, but looked as if he had been running for days on adrenaline and sheer stubbornness rather than food and sleep. "Now," I said, handing Lennier some pain-killing tea and refilling Marcus's cup. "What do you need my help with?"

"Zagros Seven." Marcus washed down another bite of flatbread. He told the rest of his story as he ate, his words as spare as his movements. Not a wasted syllable or motion. He had come from the Ranger training base on Zagros Seven, he said, which two weeks ago had been blockaded by Centauri mines. Every ship attempting to run the blockade had been shot down. "We need you to break it. I know the White Star is ready; it should have enough firepower. But we'll need to move quickly. It won't be long before the Centauri come against us in force."

If he knew about the White Star, then he was in Sinclair's confidence. My estimation of him rose higher. So did my curiosity. Sinclair had not mentioned him by name in any briefings or conversations, yet clearly Marcus had his trust. "The training base is the target, then?"

"I'm certain of it. Not much other reason to go after a small Drazi colony with little strategic value, is there?"

I nodded. "We will tell Captain Sheridan."

Marcus looked guarded. "I don't know him. That's why I came to you."

"I do." I went to the Babcom unit to place the call.

**ooOoo**

John was in his office, alone, and expected to be so for the next hour. For once, I found myself blessing the ubiquitous annoyance of paperwork. We made our plans without interruption, and without inconvenient discovery by Mr. Endawi. He seemed an honest man, but we knew nothing of who he reported to… and if the slightest hint of certain activities aboard Babylon Five were to reach Clark's ears, things would swiftly—as Garibaldi liked to say—go to hell in a handbasket. (As Minbari do not believe in hell, I found this idiom puzzling, and needed several explanations before its meaning was fully clear.)

Ivanova, called in and briefed on the situation, already knew far more about the Rangers than John had given her credit for—much to his relief, and somewhat to his embarrassment. Garibaldi raised the expected objections—where were we to get a warship, crew, ordnance to break a blockade?—but Marcus settled them with an oblique reference to the White Star. He did not then refer to the ship by name, or even directly confirm that there _was_ a ship—yet neither John nor Garibaldi asked for specifics. When he said, "We have the means, if you have the will," they took him at his word. It augured well for future trust between them. I had a feeling we would be seeing much more of Marcus Cole, if this unexpected mission went well.

We concocted a cover story for Mr. Endawi, left Garibaldi to keep an eye on him, and departed for the rendezvous point where the White Star waited. I did not confess it then—the need was too clear, and too great—but even with such a beauty of a vessel at our disposal, I harbored private fears about what we proposed to do. It seemed unlikely that the Centauri would merely blockade Zagros Seven if they knew a sizable Ranger training base was there… and Marcus was right, no other explanation made sense. True, they were hungrily devouring more valuable targets on the far side of Drazi space—but if they needed military resources for that, then why blockade Zagros Seven at all? I couldn't help but think something else was at work here. Something we had not anticipated, that would make this mission far more hazardous than it appeared.

I was right. And also, thankfully, wrong—wrong to believe us unready for the peril we faced, even though it came without warning.

**ooOoo**

The trip through hyperspace was uneventful. I spent it showing John and Susan the ship, re-familiarizing myself with it in the process. Their reaction was all I might have desired, particularly John's. He wanted to know everything the White Star could do, and demanded information with the insatiable curiosity of a small child. It was a human trait I found endearing, all the more because I shared it. Ivanova took to the weapons systems like a warrior born, though she found time for a brief conversation with Marcus as well. I caught a reference to his brother, who had died in a Shadow attack on a mining colony. His blank expression and taut voice as he told his story explained at least part of where his buried sorrow lay. Susan's straightforward manner often prompted such confidences; I hoped it would do him good. _Assuming we get back in one piece,_ I thought, and fought my nerves down for what felt like the hundredth time.

Then we were out of hyperspace, and there was no more time to worry. I took my place at the forward sensor array, Lennier at the rear console that controlled the ship's jump engines. Unique among ships of her relatively small size, the White Star could generate her own jump points—which meant we need not rely on the Zagros system's jump gate. Instead, we came in by stealth close to our destination.

The mines lay between us and the planet, a gleaming and deadly ring. They spat laser fire as we approached, but their initial blasts fell short. Susan answered in kind; first one mine, then two more erupted in showers of debris. I watched the sensor array for the first sign of a Centauri warship. There should be one in the system on patrol; the destruction of the mines would bring it here with all speed to investigate.

Seconds passed, then minutes. No sign of any warship. John began to prowl the bridge, restless as a mountain cat. It made no sense, as he said, for the Centauri to simply abandon a blockade and leave their military hardware behind unprotected. Yet that was precisely what they seemed to have done.

"We're picking up a disturbance," Ivanova said. "One ship, unknown configuration."

I felt an unwelcome chill of premonition. Then the vessel shimmered into view.

Gleaming black, insect-spined, relentlessly bearing down on us. "_Shadows… in Valen's name_…"

I did not realize until afterward that I had actually spoken those words. Nor the others that followed, cutting across John and Marcus and Ivanova's hurried conference: "We're not ready for this yet!"

"Then we'd better get ready, and fast." John's tone left no room for doubt. "We came this far; we're going to finish what we started. Continue attack."

"Aye, sir." Ivanova. Calm and unruffled, as if she were in her sitting room with a cup of coffee and a book instead of on the bridge of an untried warship, facing down a deadly foe. Distantly, through the blind terror that froze me, I envied her cool composure. Where was mine? But then, I knew our enemy. Ivanova and John did not.

"Enemy vessel is targeting us," Ivanova said.

John ordered evasive action. I couldn't breathe. The Shadow ship would fire, and we would die. Any second now. I felt every muscle knotting, awaiting the fatal strike.

The Shadow vessel fired. Again. A third time. The White Star bucked under the impact of the blasts… which, I realized belatedly, had only struck _near_ us. "They missed…" I turned to John, incredulous. "They _never_ miss."

I saw him put the pieces together a heartbeat before he spoke. "They don't recognize our ship. They want to find out who we are before they destroy us. They'll either cripple us so they can board us, or drive us off so they can follow us." Then he said something wholly unexpected. "That should give us just enough room to maneuver."

_What…_? But I had no time to finish my thought. Ivanova cleared the last mine in the area, giving the trapped Rangers their escape window. Marcus sent the signal; moments later, a scattering of ships belonging to half a dozen races shot upward from the planet's surface and headed toward the jump gate. At John's order, we followed.

This was madness. We could not lose a Shadow ship in hyperspace, nor could our weapons harm a Shadow vessel that size. Quietly, so as not to diminish his authority before the crew, I told John so—_we need help, _I said,_ we cannot hope to destroy such a ship alone._

He gave me a look, part concern and part regret. "With all due respect, Ambassador… I've heard that before."

The _Black Star_, he meant. My rising fear made it difficult to think clearly—but after a moment, I began to realize what he was telling me. It had made no sense nearly fifteen years ago for him to take on the pride of the Minbari war fleet in a crippled and dying EarthForce vessel. Yet he did it, and won a victory for Earth that should have been impossible.

The thought of the _Black Star_ still brought pain. But also, now, a strange and fragile comfort. If John, untried and new to command, had overmastered a Minbari war cruiser in the badly damaged _Lexington_, who was to say what he might do now, with the White Star at his command? Perhaps we weren't doomed after all…

"Enemy vessel is closing." Ivanova. All my fears came galloping back. _Cripple us so they can board us_, John had said. Was our pursuer preparing to do that now? Had we run out of time?

I forced my attention back to the moment. John and Susan were talking about jump engines, about opening a jump point inside a jump gate. I caught the word "bonehead," and saw Lennier glance up in shock at the apparent slur. Ivanova gave us both a contrite look. "No offense."

Each of us nodded slightly, accepting her apology. "None taken," Lennier said.

The awkward moment over, she resumed talking to John. "Because it's suicide. Forming a jump point inside a jump gate releases a staggering amount of energy. None of our ships could clear the blast range without being blown to bits."

"But this isn't one of our ships," he said. "Mr. Lennier, what do you think? Is this ship fast enough to get out before the gate blows?"

_Blowing up a jump gate…_? I gripped the edges of my console hard enough to hurt. I expected unorthodox thinking from John, but… Lennier's startled reply—"I have no idea!"—and John's disgruntled response passed in a blur. I had thrown in our lot with a crazy man who had no idea what he was dealing with. We _weren't _ready for this; we needed help, but there was none to be had. No help, no escape, no hope…

No. That was panic talking. Once more, I fought it down. I watched John cross the bridge, watched him thinking rapid-fire as he moved. He was tense, fully aware of how precarious our situation was—but I saw no fear in him. Only fierce determination, and the steady confidence that was his hallmark. _You know this man_, I reminded myself. _You trust him, for good reason. Trust him now_.

He glanced down at the forward sensor array as he passed it. "We should just about be to Sector 45—tell them to head to the local jump gate, best speed."

Lennier caught my eye then, as if to ask, _Do you know what he's up to_? I had no answer for him, yet something about Sector 45 tugged at my memory. As he relayed the order to the crew, I moved to John's side. "Captain, why this jump gate?"

A bleak look crossed his face. "It's expendable. It used to be the Markab system. Ever since they died out, other races have been using the abandoned gate to strip the place bare. I do _not_ like grave robbers." He paused just long enough to calm himself. "This should take care of two problems at once."

Memories of the dying Markab rose in my mind. Outrageous, that thieves would desecrate their dead world. John was right. The sooner we destroyed this gate, the better.

Lennier spoke. "Approaching jump gate."

Now or never, as humans said. The word _never_ echoed in my brain. _Breathe_, I reminded myself, even as my hand fluttered near my throat.

John gave the standby order for the jump gate sequence and told Ivanova to ride the jump engines. He must have seen my nervous gesture; he came over and caught my eye. "You ready for this?"

Seconds from unlikely victory or annihilation, and he took the time to reassure me. This was why I loved him, among many other reasons. That feeling colored my reply. "No…but you may proceed anyway."

Our eyes locked for a moment, intimate as a caress. Then he turned away. "Activate jump gate sequence… now!"

The gate opened. We entered it, and John barked out the order for the jump engines. I felt the surge of power as we shot out of the gate into open space. The Shadow vessel, still closing, abruptly dropped back. Waves of energy surrounded it, flaring up like the light-storms of Minbar, but a thousand times more furious in their intensity. The ship strained against the swirling morass, then shattered as the gate exploded outward in a blinding fireball.

"Hang on!" John shouted, as the White Star raced ahead of the shockwave. I grabbed the nearest console with one hand, John's wrist with the other. His hand closed over mine in a death-grip. We couldn't outrun the shockwave—the only question was whether we would survive its impact.

The ship slewed over as the leading edge struck. I hit the floor hard, and braced myself against it as the White Star shuddered and shook. Inner bulkheads buckled; sparks flew, and acrid electrical smoke filled the bridge. Then the shuddering stopped, and the searing light from the shockwave faded from the forward viewport. It was over, and we were still alive.

Somehow, John and I had managed to keep hold of each other. He helped me up, then peered around the smoke-filled bridge. "Everybody all right?"

A glance told me he was, much to my relief. Where was Lennier? He had been standing on the same side of the bridge as I, near the rear sensor array… I squinted through the smoke. "Lennier… Lennier?" No answer. I looked around and caught sight of him, crumpled against the port bulkhead on the far side of the bridge. "Lennier!" How had he gotten over there? Swift as thought, I went to his side and knelt down, checking for injuries. No blood, and nothing looked broken…

He blinked at me, slightly dazed, yet apparently no worse for wear. "I was just thinking," he said, haltingly, "that in all my years in temple, nothing prepared me for this sort of experience. Perhaps, when this is all over, I will submit a proposal to revise the program. I think that would be a very good idea."

Laughter came out before I could stop it. This was so like him, fighting his way back to composure by pretending very hard that he had not been rattled in the slightest. That, in fact, he had spent the ordeal through which we had just passed calmly contemplating how to use it as a training aid for acolytes. Dizzy with relief and delighted by his absurdity, I helped him to his feet. John was grinning widely, Ivanova also. And Marcus… Marcus's smile was mostly in his eyes. Which were fixed on the rest of us, shining with an emotion I had not yet seen there.

Hope.


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note: **Much of this chapter incorporates scenes and dialogue from "Messages from Earth". Gapfiller scenes are my own.

**Part 23—A Gift of Rain**

An awkward surprise met us when we got back to the station: Mr. Endawi, with a silent Garibaldi, waiting for us in the docking bay. We improvised an explanation for our absence, and the fraudulent shuttle destination in the station log, though it was clear to all of us that Mr. Endawi didn't believe a word. I sensed, as he bade us a stiff farewell, that he would keep his own counsel about it. Where we had been, and why we had lied, were beyond the scope of his task. As for John, his only comment—in response to what he knew was my outright falsehood about the disabled Minbari shuttle in need of towing to a nearby jump point—was a quiet "Nice save," in my ear.

Garibaldi, being Garibaldi, felt entitled to tease me about it. "Pretty slick, for someone who doesn't lie."

"Much can be forgiven when a life is to be saved," I said as we departed the docking bay.

Those words came back to me much later, amid a personal crisis that nearly broke me. And that brought up, for the first time, a profound and disturbing question—whether saving the life of another could be a selfish act, if that other were sufficiently beloved. To this day, I have no answer. Only the knowledge that for me it may have been, and hard-won acceptance of my failing in that regard. And gratitude that great good came of it nonetheless.

We might have thought we had earned a respite, but the Universe had other plans. Less than three weeks after Zagros Seven, Lennier was nearly killed saving my life and Londo's when a bomb went off in a passenger bay. John told me later that the bomber planned to destroy the entire station, and came within minutes of doing so. Lennier luckily made a full recovery, though it was touch and go for a time. On the first day we knew he would pull through, my meditations were as much unsettled as thankful. Truly, if the Universe meant to test our mettle, it was doing far too thorough a job.

Mollari was deeply moved by Lennier's actions; he felt he had done nothing to merit the near-sacrifice of Lennier's life, and for the first time since joining forces with Mr. Morden he began to take stock of his choices. It was a fitful process, but Londo never was as good as he wished at lying to himself. One symptom of this change was his request that I recommend Vir as Centauri ambassador to Minbar. I was still deeply angry with Londo for what he had done to G'Kar, and for what his people were doing to the Narns; his blindness to the nature of Mr. Morden and his "associates" drove me half mad with frustration, and ordinarily I would have been in no mood to do him any favors. Yet his soberness about it touched me—and Vir was certainly deserving. Indeed, he was probably the best choice for the post. Innocent, honest and painfully well-meaning, Vir had little chance of advancement in the new Centauri empire. And Londo had come to care for him, as much as he cared for anyone. Mollari wore armor around his soul as thick as a warship's hull; but Vir, with his unflagging loyalty and awkward sincerity, had slipped through it to what was left of Londo's heart. Mollari knew a day of reckoning was coming, and he wanted to get Vir out of the line of fire.

The Grey Council for once raised no objections, and so Vir left Babylon Five for Minbar. Without him, Londo grew morose, and more cynical by the hour. He even lost interest in baiting G'Kar, who in any case was preoccupied with saving his people any way he could. G'Kar had begun to suspect the existence of what John termed our "war council," and had heard stories of the Rangers as well. The growing presence of the Night Watch made it necessary to resort to subterfuge in order for the council to meet, and G'Kar was nothing if not observant. When he asked me about these things, I forestalled him with an excuse… but I knew it would not suffice for long.

As for his desire to know more, I was torn. The Narns were suffering most just now because of the Shadows' machinations, and G'Kar knew his own ancient history as well as I knew mine. If anyone understood the peril we faced, and had a right to confront it, he did. Yet I could not be sure of him. Specifically, I could not be sure that he would not still see the conflict through the narrow lens of Narn-versus-Centauri; and also that Morden or his "associates" would not find a way to use G'Kar's understandable hatred of the Centauri against us, if the Narns joined our battle.

So I temporized and he went away, though not at all satisfied. He had reminded me, however, that we sorely needed more allies. I proposed to the war council that we find some. Preferably, the most powerful we could get—the First Ones, immeasurably ancient races that had fought the Shadows to a standstill many times over the past millenium. "After the last war, a thousand years ago, we believed the First Ones went away forever, passing beyond the galactic rim where no human or Minbari has ever ventured. But the Vorlons remained. It is possible that some of the others may still be around."

Draal, present for the meeting at my behest, suggested that one of us come down to Epsilon Three and use the Great Machine to pinpoint the First Ones' whereabouts. It would be "fun," he said. John volunteered to go at the first opportunity—use of the Great Machine was not without its dangers, and he would ask no one to face any hazard that he was not prepared to face himself.

The Night Watch, meanwhile, was becoming a larger problem. Every day, it seemed, I saw more of their black armbands—disturbingly often worn by security personnel. When Zack Allen joined their ranks, Garibaldi could hardly contain himself. Mr. Allen's decision dismayed me; affable and easygoing, he hardly seemed the type to join a hunt for phantom traitors to Morgan Clark's regime. "He doesn't get it," Garibaldi fumed, when the subject of the Night Watch came up. "He thinks it's money for nothing—'fifty extra credits a week for doing what I do anyway,' that's what he said to me. Like all they want him to do is his regular job. He has no idea what they'll make him do sooner or later. By the time he figures it out, he'll be in so deep…" He clenched a fist and struck the conference table. "I don't know which way he's going to jump when they finally put him up against that wall. I don't know how to get through to him. Hell, I don't know anything anymore."

John managed to calm Garibaldi down, but we ended the meeting with no solution save watching and waiting. We had, as John pointed out, no leverage with which to challenge the Night Watch's authority. Unless that changed, there was nothing to do but adapt, and warn potential targets as and when we could. Which was nowhere near often to satisfy any of us. And the darkness grew.

Until Ivanova brought us shocking news, gleaned from her sojourn in the Great Machine. (She had gone in John's place, when the unexpected arrival of a "political officer" from Earth made it impossible for John to leave the station unnoticed.) Supervised by Draal, she had merged with the machine to seek the First Ones. She had found where some of them might be… and also confirmed a terrible suspicion. The Great Machine could range anywhere in time—present, past, multiple futures. Ivanova had seen into the recent past, and stumbled across a dark conspiracy. President Santiago of Earth had indeed been murdered, at Morgan Clark's instigation—with assistance from Mr. Morden and the Shadows.

"There's our leverage," John told me, later that night in his office. Far later than either of us should have been there. The unwelcome news about Clark had so disturbed me that I couldn't sleep, and had gone to John's office rather than his quarters on the hunch that he couldn't sleep, either. "Too soon to tell if it'll do any good, though. They'll claim the recording Draal made is doctored, try to spin it away..." He paced across the room, running a hand through his hair. "What I'm hoping is, it'll galvanize opposition back home. Plenty of people don't agree with what Clark's doing, but his side is so good with weasel words… Patriotism. Peace. Loyalty to Earth. Clark and the Night Watch are re-defining them all, right under people's noses. This, though—this ought to give people a clear cause to rally around." He sank down on the small sofa across from his desk, as if suddenly too weary to stay upright. "Or it could push Clark into doing something drastic. He's been content with creeping rot so far, but if this spooks him… We may have jumped right out of the frying pan and onto the hot coals."

I joined him on the sofa and took his hand. "Perhaps it will not come to that."

"But it might."

I could not be less than honest with him, especially at such a moment. "Yes."

He said nothing more, only sighed. I leaned against him, and felt his arm wrap gently around me. We sat like that for a long time, offering each other silent comfort.

"Well," he said at length, not moving, "whatever happens will happen. We'd best be prepared, either way."

I wished I could offer him some certainty of the better outcome. But deception is deception, however well-meant… and here, now, there was no life or honor to be saved. There was only cold reality, and the warmth of our trust in each other.

**ooOoo**

Susan and Marcus, who had gone off in the White Star to seek a race of First Ones near Sigma 957, returned some time later with good news: we had gained an ally. Marcus told me privately, with great relish, just how Susan had managed this feat. "They said no at first—well, 'Zog,' actually, but it felt like 'no'—and then Susan told them we didn't need them anyway. We already had the Vorlons; why bother with anyone else? They were furious, and they fell for it." His amusement gave way to a softer, more affectionate look. "She's brilliant. And very brave. We're lucky to have her."

We certainly were. And I thought, seeing the light in his eyes as he spoke of her, that perhaps Marcus might be luckiest of all.

Too soon, that small triumph was overshadowed by a terrifying development. Some time ago, archaeologists from Earth had stumbled across a Shadow vessel, long buried in the Martian sands, and were ordered to abandon their dig by authorities in Earth's government connected to Psi Corps. The Shadows themselves had retrieved the buried ship, but another had recently been found on Ganymede, a moon of Jupiter. The brave woman who brought us this news told us that this time, the Psi Corps—and their allies in President Clark's government—had no intention of giving the vessel back. Instead, they meant to turn it toward their own uses. We could not afford to let them.

When the others left the briefing, John asked me to stay. He needed my help, he said—but for some minutes after the others' departure, he paced across his office in silence. I waited, knowing all too well what he was going through. Any move we made against the Shadow ship on Ganymede was a move against his own government. A government that had betrayed its ideals, and was hunting down its own citizens; a government whose actions violated the very laws and principles John had sworn to uphold; but a government that was still of Earth, and that John had hoped to restore to itself through peaceful means. Instead, he was faced with the terrible necessity of committing against it what in other circumstances would be called an act of war. All because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate.

"So," he said finally, with a set face that spoke of tight control. "What are we dealing with here?"

"I know only what comes from ancient records," I said. "According to those I have seen, the Shadows seeded their ships throughout known space after the end of the Great War a thousand years ago. Buried them, like the ones on Mars and Ganymede, and left them dormant until they would be needed again."

"Dormant?" He pounced on the word. "So the Psi Corps people on Ganymede, they'll… what? Try to wake the ship up?"

"Yes." The very thought of such an attempt made my blood freeze. They could not know enough about what they were dealing with to succeed—and if they tried and failed…

I must have shown my discomfort; he looked concerned and came closer to me. "Are you all right?"

I managed a smile to reassure him. "I am fine. It is simply… an unsettling subject."

"No kidding." He grinned back at me, and just for a moment the cloud around him lifted. Then it settled back, though a trifle less heavily than before. "What you said awhile ago, that I'm not alone… it means a lot to have you here now, Delenn. I wanted you to know that."

My heart felt suddenly light. Absurd, considering what we faced—again—but I couldn't help it. "I am your friend," I answered after a pause. "Friends help each other, do we not?"

He looked at me for a long moment, eyes soft with affection. Then he seemed to shake himself, and came back to the business at hand. "So what happens if they wake it?"

"Nothing good. How bad it is, depends on whether or not they do it successfully." I debated whether or not to tell him precisely why—that Shadow vessels needed to merge with sentient beings in order to function correctly—and decided against it. He had enough weighing him down as it was. "If they succeed, they will control a warship of nearly unimaginable destructive power. If they fail, the ship will be out of their control—but just as destructive."

"Rogue," he said quietly.

"Yes." I felt cold, and wrapped my arms around myself. It didn't help. The chill came not from the air, but from knowledge I did not want.

"Well, then." I heard the hollowness behind his attempt at hearty conviction. "We'll just have to nail the thing on the ground, before they get a chance to try anything. We'll take the White Star; it looks different enough from typical Minbari technology that they won't trace it back to your people if—"

"If things go wrong."

A heavy silence fell. He moved to look out his office window, at the view of the gardens. I joined him, and we stared out at the greenery together for awhile. After a time, his hand found mine. I kept loose hold of his fingers. As before, when Santiago's murder was exposed, there was no spark between us; the situation was too serious for that. Only a small, steady glow, like a candle in the darkness.

"We'll have to make sure things don't go wrong," he said finally. "How soon can we get underway?"

"Within a few hours. I will see to it."

He nodded, then squeezed my hand and let it go. "I think… I need to go think by myself for awhile. I'll be on the observation deck."

I watched him leave, with one last attempt at a brave smile for me, and felt my heart go with him.

**ooOoo**

I sent Lennier ahead to make arrangements, then met John on the observation deck. He still did not like what we had to do, but seemed resolute. The others protested, especially Garibaldi, but John never wavered. We would take the White Star to Ganymede and destroy the Shadow ship before it became operational.

Lennier served as helmsman, along with a skeleton crew. We knew we would encounter the Earth Alliance early-warning system once we reached the security perimeter near Jupiter, so we left all identification behind and equipped Ivanova, Stephen and Garibaldi with a cover story in case the worst happened and we did not make it home. We would not, of course, permit ourselves or the White Star to be captured. We would die first, and our ship along with us.

The trip took just over two days, most of it in hyperspace. John put a brave face on it, but beneath his grim determination I read growing anxiety as the hours dragged on. We had little to do; Lennier and the crew knew their business, and needed little input from us. That would come later, when swift decisions must be made as we attacked our quarry and fled. I had translated and downloaded all the records I had of encounters with Shadow vessels during the last Shadow War; John spent time studying them, and the telemetry from Zagros Seven, on the data-reader I had given him. What he read only made him look grimmer. He was coming to grips with the ugly reality that, no matter how things went, some of his own people would die at his order. If we struck our target on the ground, some of the personnel nearby would be killed by our ship's weapons or in the subsequent explosion. And that was the best-case scenario. The worst case… I did not want to think of that. Nor, I knew, did he.

I offered him what comfort I could, though it was little enough. Staying close to him; talking occasionally of whatever I could think of that had nothing to do with our mission, yet would not sound unbearably frivolous in light of it; a hand on his arm now and again, reminding him without words that he was not alone. It eased him to have me near; he would smile at me, and even through his weariness I saw he understood what I was doing. At times, despite our grave situation, I felt almost happy. It was right we should face this test together.

Lennier went off to nap awhile and then brought us food, re-hydrated vegetable stew and dried fruit from the ship's stores. We ate, disposed of our containers in the recycler, and resumed our silent course through the red-black swirls of hyperspace. John was buried in the translated records. I found myself wandering around the ship's bridge, never far away from him, but too unsettled to stay still. Thirty-four more hours until we reached our destination.

Fatigue washed over me, and I realized I had been awake for eighteen hours just since boarding the ship. "I will go and rest," I said quietly to John, who had hardly moved from the command chair. "You should as well."

He nodded absently. "In a while. I want to read a little more."

I bowed farewell, but his attention was already back on the data-reader. As I left the bridge, I had a quiet word with Lennier. "Make sure Captain Sheridan rests. Sooner would be better than later."

Lennier bent his head in acknowledgment. "I will take care of him. Sleep well, Delenn."

**ooOoo**

But sleep eluded me. The first stage of meditation was easy enough to reach; deeper levels were as far away as Babylon Five seemed to be. The crew quarters were too large, too empty. Out of necessity, I had grown used to sleeping wholly alone in my two-room quarters on the station; but here, now, I found myself longing for the sounds of other people breathing. For one other in particular…

I dozed, woke, dozed off again. And woke to irritated muttering, accompanied by sliding and thumping noises. John. Apparently having trouble with the slanted, Minbari-style bed.

I turned over and propped myself up to face him, just in time to watch him slide halfway down the bed next to me for the third time. He sat up with a look of weary resignation that went straight to my heart. He would never be able to rest in that mental state.

I spoke gently, not wanting to startle him. "I wondered when you would get some sleep."

He looked briefly surprised at my presence, then gave a tired laugh. "You have a most persistent attaché."

True enough, and I blessed Lennier for it. John was examining the bed, apparently trying to see if he could make it lie flat. "How do you sleep on these things?"

"It's quite simple, with proper meditation. We consider sleeping in the horizontal to be tempting death."

"Well, if I sleep on this, I'll be tempting fate. All night."

"Don't worry." It was sheer pleasure to look at him, even worn out as he was. I can only blame what I said next on that, and on the circumstances of the moment: ship's night in hyperspace after too many hours awake, the odd but welcome intimacy of the crew quarters empty of all save ourselves. "I will watch, and catch you if you should fall." He did not know our rituals, I told myself; I was _not_ being shamelessly forward by suggesting such a thing.

Another short laugh, this time with genuine warmth. "Okay. I doubt if I'll be getting much sleep anyway." Carefully, he lay on the bed and fixed his gaze on the ceiling. A brief silence fell. Then he spoke again—the random words of the deeply fatigued. "It's funny… this'll be the closest I've been to Earth in four years. Who'd have thought I'd come back in a Minbari ship?"

Another silence. I wanted to say something light-hearted to ease his spirit, but nothing came to mind. He was clearly beyond exhaustion, and there was no help for it.

"You know what I miss most about home?" he went on. "The sound of rain hitting the roof at night. It always helped me fall asleep. Back when I was a kid, preparing for the academy… I'd be up until, oh, four or five o'clock in the morning studying. I'd have maybe two hours to sleep after that… but I was so wound up… I'd just lie there." He trailed off for a moment, lost in memory. "Same thing happened the night before my final test. I just knew if I didn't get some sleep, I'd never pass it."

I could almost see the boy he had been, anxious and drawn, desperate for rest and yet pacing around his bedroom far too close to sunrise. "And? Did it begin to rain?"

"No."

That saddened me. It _should_ have rained when he needed it so…

"But Dad," he said, turning to face me and propping himself up on one elbow. He was smiling now. "My dad heard me walking around. He knew I couldn't sleep. So he went outside and he got the garden hose—and sprayed it, so it came down on the roof. Just like rain. He stood there, making it rain until I fell asleep. I sometimes think he would've stood there for days if he had to."

The gentle affection in his face made me wistful. I had loved my father too, despite what came between us at the end. _He would have made it rain for me_, I thought, my gaze fixed somewhere past the edge of my bed.

When I glanced up, John was no longer smiling. He wore a lost look that echoed my own. "I miss him," he said, eyes glinting with tears he would not allow himself to shed. He lay back down, as if overborne by the weight of everything. "Right now… more than anything else in the world… I wish it would rain. Just for a little while…"

I could not ease his burden or his fears. We would share the danger when the time came—but even then, the decisions would be his. In Earth Alliance space, he must be in command. I could not take that from him, or change any of what we faced.

Except for one thing. Minbari often used sounds as meditation aids; the White Star's comm systems held several. All I had to do was choose.

I settled back and spoke, quietly but clearly. "_Na'shas duve'na_." A moment later, the patter of raindrops filled the room.

John looked startled, then delighted. He started to sit up, but I gently pressed him back down. Everything I felt for him was in my face; I wanted him to see it. To know he was not alone, that love was not far away and gone. It was here with him, in this room. "Sleep now."

All the tension drained out of him. He kept hold of my hand as his eyes slowly closed and his body relaxed. Sleep took him gently, like the sound of spring rain.

I watched over him as I had promised, until sleep took me too.

**ooOoo**

We succeeded in our mission, though not without tense moments. The worst came just after we destroyed the Shadow vessel by luring it into Jupiter's gravity well, when the EarthForce warship _Agamemnon_ accosted us. John's nightmare had come true. Faced with the choice to surrender or fight and risk killing his old shipmates, he froze in indecision. It was the only time I ever recall that happening. In the end, we escaped through an act of inspired insanity; we opened a jump gate inside Jupiter's hydrogen-rich atmosphere, counting on the energy from the resulting explosion to wipe out the _Agamemnon_'s sensor arrays. Our gambit succeeded; the White Star fled safely into hyperspace, riding just ahead of obliteration. A trifle bumped and bruised but otherwise no worse for wear, we set course for home.

It did not take long for our actions to bear consequences. Clark's government blamed us, the "unknown alien vessel," for the destruction wrought on Ganymede by the rogue Shadow ship. In depriving him of one source of power, we had given him another… and the darkness that was slowly engulfing the Earth Alliance, on Earth itself and on Babylon Five, rose a little more. Things would have been far worse had we not acted, we all knew it, but that was cold comfort.

Meanwhile, my personal dilemma deepened. The long night aboard the White Star would not leave my mind—especially the memory John had shared with me. Had he been a Minbari male, I would have known exactly what it meant. My people keep the depths of ourselves in reserve; the memories and feelings that mean the most to us, or leave us most vulnerable, we share only with those we hold most dear. Humans were much more varied; the ease with which many of them displayed deep emotion often startled me, especially during my first months aboard Babylon Five. John was very open, up to a point; he approached everyone as a potential friend, yet also kept parts of himself private. He would show that private self to those closest to him—had begun to do so with me, or so I thought. But this… this seemed different. He had shared such a personal memory of his father, his childhood… and then had been so unguarded, unafraid to show himself lost and sad and alone with a terrible weight on his shoulders. For a Minbari, such intimacy would be a clear sign of falling in love. For a human… I did not know.

I tried to lose myself in preparations, as I had before. I certainly had enough to do. Reports and consultations with Sinclair, reports on the progress of the White Star fleet, reports from Rathenn on the continued refusal of the Grey Council to face reality—I was buried in reports, from early morning until late at night. Yet too often I found my thoughts drawn to John like a falling object to the ground beneath. Once or twice, in the depths of night, I woke from dreams of him and wondered what had possessed me to fall in love with a human. Was my life not complicated enough, without the daily uncertainty of not knowing if my feelings were returned? There were no rituals to guide me—only my instincts and my sense of who John was. And I wanted so much for him to love me back that I no longer trusted those.

So I turned, finally, to the one person I could trust, who knew the ways of human males well enough to advise me. The ways of this human male in particular, I hoped.

I was making tea when Susan arrived that evening. She greeted me with a smile, then sank down on one end of the sofa and breathed deep. "I love the smell of that stuff," she said, with a nod toward the teapot I had just set down on the nearby table. "Orange peel and cardamom. That's what it reminds me of. What do you call it again?"

"_Hala_." I poured us each a cup while thinking, _John likes oranges_… I set the teapot down a touch harder than I had intended. If I meant to ask Susan anything, I had to get hold of myself.

We sipped tea in silence while I searched for what to say. Now that she was here, it was harder than I expected to begin. Would I seem foolish, naïve? Would she be shocked at what I asked? Or was I dreaming, and she would know it and pity me the moment the words came out?

My mouth felt dry, and I gulped tea. Susan saw and raised an eyebrow—I envied humans that feature, so exquisitely expressive—but said nothing. I said nothing, either. I was too busy schooling myself to calm. _You asked her here. If you do not say why, you are wasting her time, of which she has little enough to herself. This is not the act of a friend_.

As if she had read my thoughts, she spoke. "Delenn… not that I'm not enjoying myself, sitting here in the quiet and drinking tea, but you asked me to drop by. I'm guessing there's a reason. You want to tell me about it?"

I set down my cup. My empty hands came together in my lap, as if by clasping them tightly enough I could keep myself together. "I, um… I have a question of a… personal nature…"

She looked anxious. "This isn't another one of those human female body things, is it? I'm not real comfortable with those—"

A laugh escaped me, mainly a release of tension. "No. No, I… I need to know about… human males."

"Oh, God." She went pink, put her cup down and ran a hand through her hair. "You—you need me to tell you about—_that_?"

For a moment, I could not imagine what she meant. Then I realized what my choice of words had conjured up. My own cheeks flamed; agitation propelled me off the sofa and a few steps away. "No. Oh, no. Not—I'm sorry. I am saying this all wrong, and I don't know how to say it right."

There was a small silence. "Maybe you don't need to say it right," Susan said at length. "Maybe you should just… say it."

So much easier advised than done. A long, slow breath to steady myself; then the words came. "How do you know when a man sees you as… more than a friend? As… someone he can love?"

Her eyes widened, and a peculiar look came over her. Then she ducked her head. It took me a moment to realize she was trying not to laugh.

I felt horribly wounded. I had bared my soul to her, and she was _amused_? "It is _not_ funny," I said, mortified to hear my voice shaking.

She looked instantly contrite, though I could still see the broad smile she had tried to hide. "I'm sorry, Delenn. Of course it isn't. Well actually, it is, kind of, but—oh, hell. Come here." She took my hand and led me back to sit beside her. "I'm not laughing at you, Delenn. Or making light of this. I know it matters a lot. It's just—well, you're the second person in two days to ask me for help straightening out their love life." She stopped and searched my face. I must have looked as bewildered as I felt, because she took pity on me and continued. "Wouldn't it be a hell of a lot easier if you and John just talked to each other?"

I felt suddenly breathless as I took in what she had just said. "He… he asked you about me?"

"He tried. Not that he managed to get a coherent question out. He started off with, 'Do you think Delenn…', then went to, 'Has Delenn ever…', and ended with, "If you were Minbari, how would you…'. Then he turned pink around the ears, muttered that he was being stupid, and walked away looking like a cranky bear. Most amazing display of tongue-tie I've ever seen." She shook her head. "He did finally manage to ask me something, now I recall. He wanted to know what kind of flowers you liked best."

"And what did you say?"

She shrugged and reached for her tea. "I told him it hadn't come up."

I sank back against the sofa cushions, feeling dazed. Flowers. A time-honored gift of love between humans, in many contexts… including romance. And Susan… Susan looked happy. As if she did not mind that I was in love with her captain and her friend. And he with me, perhaps. As if she liked the idea…

"Lilacs," I murmured.

"Hmm?"

"Lilacs. The flower I like best." If I could have seen my own face at that moment, it would have shone like a beacon.

She tilted her head. "White or purple?"

The offhand question was so perfectly Susan Ivanova that I could not help myself. I pulled her close and touched my forehead to hers, an affectionate gesture that made her blush a little. "It's not that big a deal," she said. "I didn't tell you much."

"Now _that_ is where you are wrong. You told me everything."


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note: **This chapter is concurrent with the episode, "Point of No Return", during which Delenn was absent from Babylon Five. Here's my take on where she went, and what might have happened.

**Part 24—Little Victories**

Clark made his move sooner than we anticipated. I did not learn of the coup on Earth until John told me, some days after it happened; at the time, I was en route to the world of Chatulan, near the spinward border of Minbari space. The White Star fleet was being built near there, in defiance of—and in secret from—the Grey Council. The warrior caste that now effectively controlled the Council had declined to involve itself in war preparations, and had explicitly barred the other castes from infringing on the warriors' privilege of determining how best to defend Minbari territory. The Anla'shok, they did not care about; they considered the Rangers an amateur fighting force and therefore beneath their notice. Warships were different. Those who chose to build them outside the purview of the Council did so at great risk. Their courage inspired me; we would need it in the days ahead.

Work on the fleet was progressing ahead of schedule, one of the few things to go right in recent days. I took it as an omen, and went ahead with a short trip I had planned to Minbar. Rathenn would be back aboard the _Valen'tha_ by now, his brief leave having ended, but I could talk with Sinclair about how things had been going since his last report. It would be good to see him face to face; after nearly two Earth years communicating with him by comm screen, I missed my old friend.

"It's going well," he told me when he met my flyer in the landing zone near the Rangers' training camp. The landing zone was a broad, flat tableland in the foothills of the Suan'trai Mountains that encircled Tuzanor and the Mir clanhold. The Miri and two other religious-caste mountain clans, the Hever and the Talan, had pooled land where our three holdings met for the Anla'shok compound. The sharp, cold air of late winter ruffled my hair as I walked by Sinclair's side, away from the flyer and toward the nearest building. I breathed deep and caught the scent of _hala_ bushes; they grew everywhere on the slopes. I had breathed that scent since my earliest days. It felt good to walk amid the landscape where I was born. And yet, it was no longer the same. I was no longer the same. Half my heart stayed elsewhere now, with a tall, flame-haired EarthForce soldier whose life was bound to mine. And I would not have wished it any other way.

I sensed rather than saw Sinclair smiling at me. "Good to be home?"

"Yes. Very." We ducked under an overhang, out of the wind. He opened the heavy wooden door in front of us and gestured for me to walk through. The cold vanished as the door closed behind us. We were in the administrative center, where the instructors had their private offices and meditation rooms. The curved ceiling arched over our heads; our footsteps echoed on the flagstones beneath as we walked down the hall. A hint of incense lingered in the air—_t'chalik_, a clean-smelling leafy herb also used to soothe burns and stings. Another comforting scent from my childhood.

"How are things on Babylon Five? How's Sheridan holding up?"

For no good reason, my face warmed. "He is doing well… considering," I managed to say. "The Night Watch has a foothold on the station, which pleases no one—but John and the others are still free to act for the moment, so long as they are careful." Thoughts of John swiftly gave way to memories of what was happening on Earth. Sinclair should know of events on his homeworld, but he would not like the hearing. I touched his arm. "I must tell you—things have gotten worse in the Earth Alliance since we last spoke. I cannot say how long Clark will permit you to keep your official posting here."

"We expected that. I'm prepared for it." He managed a wry smile. "How about you give me the bad news over tea? Might as well be civilized about it."

I concurred, and followed him to his study. Small but well appointed, it held a low table, several plump cushions, a somewhat taller work desk and an Earth-style straight-backed chair. Also bookshelves—two entire walls of them, stuffed with books and scrolls. The desk was littered with data-crystals, and in front of the flat-screened reader was an outstretched scroll with writing on it. Sinclair had clearly been working when informed of my arrival.

He summoned an aide and requested tea and fruit, which arrived less than ten minutes later. The aide, a slim-built youth with a narrow face, bowed his head toward me in respect as he left—not entirely able to hide the gleam of curiosity in his clear blue eyes. "I see I am still a novelty," I said as I settled on a cushion and Sinclair poured tea.

"It's not so much what you look like," he said, handing me a full cup. "It's more the living-bridge thing. They're not used to coming face to face with an embodiment of prophecy."

I smiled into my cup, half amused and half wistful. "When I was that young, I would have given anything to meet Valen. If he or any of the Nine had walked out of my dreams into my life, I would have been overjoyed."

An odd look crossed his face, too swiftly to interpret. He sat across from me and took his own cup. "And now?"

"Now?" I marshaled my thoughts. "I have found it is easier to dream of legends than to be one. Especially when you realize that so much of it is just… muddling through."

"Amen," he said with feeling, and sipped his tea.

His tone caught my ear. First that look, and now… It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him what troubled him, but he spoke first. "So. What's the latest from Earth?"

I told him of events on Ganymede, the machinations of Psi Corps, how John and I had destroyed the Shadow ship there but in the process only added to Clark's anti-alien paranoia. "We gave him the excuse he needed to step up action against non-humans… and any humans perceived to be too well disposed toward 'aliens.'" I could not keep the edge from my voice on that last word. It smacked too much of _freak_. "Even on Babylon Five, we cannot escape their reach. There are merchants in the Zocalo who have vanished, their shops vandalized and plastered with signs identifying them as traitors to Earth—because they stocked the 'wrong' books, or catered too much to a non-human clientele, or complained about someone in power. Several Security officers are among the Night Watch; you should hear Garibaldi on that subject. The Night Watch offends him. Intimidating people, harming innocents—and Garibaldi can do nothing about it. I think that offends him most of all."

"I'm not surprised." Sinclair smiled, but his eyes were sober. "Michael Garibaldi has more honor and fairness in his little finger than any ten people I know. It must gall him, to watch this happening and not be able to kick their asses."

"He would happily 'kick their asses' if no one would suffer for it except himself." I took a sip of tea. "He asks about you often. I think he misses you even more than I have. Messages and recordings are not the same."

"I know." He looked bleak, far more so than my remark warranted. I thought of pressing him, but a knock at the study door interrupted us.

"Entil'zha Sinclair?"

Surprise flashed through me. Of all the people I would not have expected…

Sinclair's grim expression gave way to a broad grin. "Come," he said.

Mayan entered the room, her hands full of flimsies. "I have the latest recruitment list, and a new poem that I thought—" She stopped short at the sight of me, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. "_Delenn_?"

Slowly, I stood. Fool that I was, I couldn't help a jolt of nerves. Mayan knew me, trusted me, loved me… and she had come to see Sinclair, was clearly working with him, she could not possibly be shocked at my changed appearance, or condemn it… yet this was the first time she had seen me since the Chrysalis. The first time we had spoken, let alone met. What was she thinking? What would she say?

Behind me, I heard Sinclair get up and quietly leave the room. I collected myself enough to manage a formal bow in Mayan's direction. More than that, I could not risk. Not until I knew.

She dropped the papers she held and came to me, catching my hands and pressing her forehead to mine. "_Shonamai_," she murmured. "Welcome home."

**ooOoo**

Some time passed before either of us remembered Sinclair, so caught up were we in our reunion. "I should have sent word," I said. "But you were touring, and I felt so unsure of myself… of everything, even you…"

She cupped my cheek. "Poor Delenn. Was it awful?"

I could not speak, only nodded.

"_I_ should have sent word," she said. "There were so many stories when I got back—you were no longer Minbari, you had made yourself a monster, the Grey Council dismissed you and said you could never come home… I knew most of it had to be pure gossip. I wanted to tell you I didn't believe it, that I was still your heart-sister and would always take your side, but… I didn't know how." A breath of laughter escaped her. "Isn't that ridiculous. The master composer of _tee'la_ who didn't know what to say."

"We're doing it again," I said.

"What?"

"Arguing over who is more at fault."

She pressed my hands, then held me at arms' length. "Well, now. Let me have a proper look at you." She studied my face. "A little less bone over the eyes… _those_ are exactly the same… your ears are higher, and a bit larger…" She eyed the top of my head, where the remnant of my bone crest was, and a faint flush crept over her cheeks. "You seem to have kept the, ummm, important part up there… Is it, umm…?"

It was hard to keep a straight face. "Yes. Perfectly."

A moment of silence—then the two of us burst out laughing, as if we were adolescent girls again. After we recovered, Mayan continued her perusal with a thoughtful frown. "I don't know what some people were on about. You don't look so different. Except for the hair." She hesitated. "May I…?"

I couldn't help smiling. "Go ahead. Touch it. Gently; there are nerve endings where it is attached to my head."

She twined her fingers in it, with a smile of pure wonder. "It feels like silk. Is it hard to care for?"

That question made me laugh. "Once I knew how, no. Before that? A nightmare." I thought of Susan, and suddenly wished she were here. She and Mayan would adore each other. "I will tell you the whole story sometime. But just now, I think we should tell Sinclair it is safe to come back in. You came to see him, after all—not me."

I helped her pick up the scattered flimsies, then found Sinclair. He had stepped into his meditation room, next to the study, and was propped against the wall with a cushion behind his back, reading a slim black book. He looked up and smiled when he saw me. "We are finished now," I told him. "For the moment."

"Mayan's been an enormous help," he said as we re-entered the study. "She came charging in here around last spring, saying she knew what we were doing and why, and wanted to help any way she could. So I gave her the task best suited to her considerable talents."

She handed him the documents she'd brought, with a small bow of her head. "Recruitment. What better job for a poet and singer than to inspire her hearers with tales of Valen and the Nine… and of Anla'shok right now, who risk their lives to fight the darkness so that we all may live another day? Every performance brings in new people, and their numbers have been growing. And no one turns away the five-time holder of the Crystal Star, if she wishes her art to be heard." Her face fell. "Well, almost no one. The Star Riders have been quite resistant—and the Khourt clan actually barred me from their lands." Her sober look gave way to a crooked grin. "Not a choice that made them popular with their neighbors. Even some of the other warrior clans were appalled."

"I should think so." Indignation on Mayan's behalf threatened to choke me. Such open insult to an artist of her stature was unheard-of. I fervently hoped it was not a sign of things to come. "But others have received you well? Even in the warrior caste?"

"Most of them." She turned one palm upward. "I cannot exactly call them enthusiastic, but they're cordial at least. And the number of warrior caste recruits has gone up a bit."

"If that continues to be so…" I felt more optimistic than I had in weeks. It seemed as though even the warrior caste was beginning to understand. Sooner or later, they might bring their leaders on the Grey Council with them. "I do not know how much time we have—but keep working. This may be the leverage we need to change minds." I did not need to say of whose minds I spoke.

**ooOoo**

I returned to Babylon Five and found it on the edge of panic. Something had happened while I was gone—involving the Night Watch, I surmised from the many Narns working security and the lack of armbands on the humans still serving as security personnel. From the look of it, at least half of Mr. Garibaldi's people were gone from their posts. I had not realized until then how far the tentacles of the Night Watch had reached.

I had been in my quarters just long enough to set my bag down, unpack a few things and start to read over the notes Lennier had left me, when my door chime rang. John came in, looking ragged around the edges but happy to see me. "I'm glad you're back. You would not believe how crazy it's been around here the last few days."

I gestured with the notes. "So Lennier tells me."

"He was marvelous." He came further into the room. "Went on with his business like nothing was happening, absolutely unflappable. Just about the only folks around here who didn't panic when the Night Watch made their move were the Minbari—mostly because of Lennier. I'd give him a commendation if I could."

"I will see it done." I set the notes down. "You have had an exciting time."

"That's one way of putting it." He paced toward the sofa, then away. "Trip go well?"

"Very. Things are progressing better than I expected." I moved into the kitchen and began to make tea; between my fatigue and his, we both needed it. "Sinclair says hello—and to tell you, well done at Ganymede."

He shook his head, scowling. "I panicked. We'd have been destroyed if you hadn't thought fast."

"It was not my people we faced the choice to fire upon."

"Still." He prowled the sitting room in an aimless circle. He was not at ease, yet I sensed he wanted to be here. With me. "I missed you," he said, as if he had read my mind.

Suddenly shy, I busied myself with the tea. "I missed you also. It is good to be back."

He took the cup I gave him with a smile and a nod of thanks, and we sat down to drink. Between sips, he told me what happened while I was gone: the military coup on Earth, the attempt by the Night Watch to take over Babylon Five, the fierce ship-to-ship battle between Clark's forces and a nascent resistance. "Five EarthForce cruisers near Io defected along with General Haig," he said. "Four got shot down. Haig and the _Alexander_ jumped out; Clark's loyalists are hunting them down now. I hope to God they can hold out long enough to regroup." His jaw tightened, and I knew he was thinking of the men and women who had died aboard the four destroyed ships. "The Night Watch are still here, unfortunately. I've taken their weapons and confined them to quarters pending proper official orders from Earth to cede our security to them, but we'll likely get those any day now. There's no way to avoid a fight; it's just a question of when."

I laid a hand on his arm. He glanced down at it, then enfolded it in his. "How tired are you?"

"Not very."

"I was wondering… There's a chamber-music concert later in the Little Theater. Amateur night, but good amateurs. Susan's playing—I think she'd be happy to see us both there. Would you like to go?"

"I would love to."

"Great." There was that grin, as if all were suddenly right in his universe. "I'll come by for you at nineteen-thirty."

**ooOoo**

He brought lilacs, in three colors—white, pale lavender, and deep purple. I breathed in their heady scent with a little thrill of delight as I thanked him and found them a cut-glass vase. We went to the concert, which I enjoyed as much for his company as the music. He had played me recordings from Earth's baroque period, but hearing it live was a different experience. Susan and the others were quite good; they could easily hold their own in the summer Festival music competition in Tuzanor. After the concert, Susan gave me a closer look at her violin, including a brief try at coaxing music from it. In my inexpert hands, the bow across the strings made a horrible caterwauling noise. Susan chuckled as she took the instrument back. "I sounded like that when I was first learning. Drove the neighbors crazy. One of them even offered to pay my father if he'd make me quit."

"I am glad you did not."

"Me, too." She set the violin in its case and closed it. "So when do I get to hear you play that harp-looking thing I saw in your quarters?"

"Now, if you like… unless it is too late?"

She looked regretful. "It is, actually… after all the excitement around here, I'm pretty beat." She hefted her violin case. "We almost cancelled this concert—but all four of us decided we needed to do something normal and fun more than we needed two extra hours of sleep. Some other time?"

I agreed, and the three of us left the Little Theater together. Susan bade us farewell a few moments later, heading off toward her quarters; John stayed to, as he put it, walk me home. "That's what you do after a date," he said as we ambled down the corridor toward Green Sector. "A gentleman walks the lady home."

A date. Susan had explained what that word meant, back when I was trying to figure out the proper human rituals for getting to know John better. _How far along in the "date" rituals are we_, I wondered, and felt myself blushing at the thought. He had brought me flowers…

Too soon, we reached my door. He lingered, seemingly as unready as I was to let the evening end. "I'd like to hear you play," he said abruptly. "Just for a little while. If you don't mind…?"

I felt fluttery inside. "Not at all. I—I would like that also."

He offered to make tea while I tuned my doubleharp. Only half my mind was on the strings beneath my fingers; I kept sneaking glances at him while he found cups and filled the kettle. Soon, the spicy aroma of brewing tea mingled with the scent of the lilacs. Neither of us spoke, but the silence felt companionable. As if he fit there, puttering around in my kitchenette while I busied myself nearby. The easy quiet, the late hour, or perhaps both, intensified the sense of connection with him that never left me. I wondered if he felt it, too.

I gave him a bright smile as he came over with the tea and sat down. "What shall I play?"

He grinned back. "Whatever you want."

I thought a moment. There was a piece by a composer named Bach, simple and lovely, that I thought I could manage from memory. I set my fingers to the strings. The notes fell into the air like shimmering drops of rain. John was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, teacup cradled in his hands. I had chosen well; he was visibly relaxing as I played, losing the ragged edges of earlier in the evening. By the time I finished, they were gone entirely.

"That was beautiful," he said. "I had no idea you played so well."

I smiled at the compliment. "In temple, we spend at least a year—"

"—Studying music." We both laughed, and I knew he was remembering the same thing I was; our first dinner at the Fresh Aire, when I had told him Minbari spent a year studying humor. "Your people don't do anything by halves, do you?"

"Not much." A brief silence fell. Then we both spoke at once: "I could play—"; "Would you mind—?"

The fluttery feeling came back. I nodded at him to speak, but he shook his head. "No, no. You first."

"I was just going to say… I could play another piece, if you like."

Was he blushing? He was. "I was just going to ask."

I managed to ask him what he wanted to hear. "Play me something Minbari," he said. "Something you like."

I gazed at my harp strings. Then I knew. "A lullaby. My mother taught it to me when I was very young… the first song I ever learned to play. A mother tells her child about the future she sees… how her little girl will grow up, all that will befall her along the way. And how she will sing this song to her own children, and they will remember their grandmother who came before." I plucked the first notes, and then began to sing. Sweet and wistful, the tune carried me away, as it always did. I was dimly aware of John easing back against the sofa cushions, a dreamy look on his face. At one point he shut his eyes, as if to hear more clearly. I could almost see the music; the silvery harp notes, my voice wrapped around them like spun gold. There was so much joy and sorrow in this song, so tightly interwoven it was hard to tell which was which. It embodied my last childhood memory of my mother, happy and sad; it was my gift to John, in return for what he had shared with me that night aboard the White Star.

The last notes died away. In the silence, I glanced at John. He did not move, or open his eyes. Before I could worry, he made a soft rumbling sound that told me he was asleep.

Moving quietly, I put the doubleharp back in its place. Then I went and sat beside him, and gently shook his shoulder. He started awake, blinking as full awareness returned. "What… Did I doze off?"

I made a little joke to put him at ease. "This is what I get for singing a lullaby to a tired man."

"I'm sorry. I heard most of it… you sounded beautiful… What a dumb thing to do. It's just… it's been such a long few days…"

He looked so regretful, I couldn't help myself. I stroked his cheek. "I know. Don't worry."

He covered my hand with his own, then turned his head and kissed my palm. I did not pull away. He leaned forward, and our lips brushed. A touch light as air, yet it flared like fire.

He moved away suddenly and stood. Neither of us knew where to look. I had no idea what to do with my hands, and wished I had my harp back. My lips were tingling; I wanted to kiss him again and felt terrified at the prospect.

He was still here. He had not fled as if ashamed at what we had done. He fidgeted from foot to foot, but did not move away—and when I finally dared glance up, I saw wonder in his face.

"It's late. I should go." He stumbled slightly over the words.

_Stay_, I thought. I spoke barely above a whisper. "It is late, yes."

He nodded once and turned away. As he reached the doorway, he turned back. "Sleep well, Delenn." He lingered another moment before going, as if reluctant to part from me.

It took some seconds to find my voice again. "And you," I whispered as the door swung closed.


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note: **Portions of dialogue in this chapter are quoted from the episode "Severed Dreams". Gapfiller scenes are my own.

**Part 25—Things Fall Apart**

I had little time to dwell on our encounter. The next morning brought events that drove it from my mind. I was reading over the status report on the White Star fleet when the Babcom unit gave a soft chime—three notes, identifying the private frequency of the Anla'shok.

I waved the data-reader off and accepted the transmission. I recognized the young Minbari male whose face appeared on the screen: Drakhenn of the family Kinar, a worker caste clan. I had spoken with several of his kindred while inspecting the White Stars just days ago.

"Delenn," he said. His voice sounded muffled, as if he feared being overheard. "I have news…"

I was closer to the comm unit now, and what I saw of him shocked me. A rapidly blackening bruise covered nearly half his forehead, and a flash burn on one side of his face spoke of a too-close encounter with a PPG. "Drakhenn, where are you? Are you safe?"

His attempt at a smile was laced with pain. "For the moment. They did not want word getting out… sent bounty hunters…" I saw him swallow and clutch at something, as if to hold himself upright. "The Shadows… they are… they have…" His eyelids fluttered closed, and his head lolled against a nearby pillar.

"Drakhenn!" I spoke sharply to reclaim his attention. "Tell me where you are. I will come to you."

"Storage bay," he murmured. "Number two. Brown Four."

"Storage bay two, Brown Four." My fingers brushed the screen, as if I could touch him through it. "Stay hidden as best you can. We will be there soon."

The comm unit went dark. I called Lennier and told him to bring Dr. Franklin to Brown Four, then headed there myself as quickly as I could.

**ooOoo**

We got Drakhenn to the nearest Medlab, with some unexpected help from G'Kar. How he came to be near that storage bay just then, I did not know and was not inclined to ask—especially after he offered to ensure Drakhenn's safe passage through security, making certain the only Narns who saw him could be trusted not to pass word to the bounty hunters on-station. Three such had attacked Drakhenn as soon as he set foot on Babylon Five, he managed to tell me before he passed out. He fought them off, but not before taking a blow to the head that left him badly concussed and disoriented. It was sheer luck he had managed to contact me before they found him again.

The story he told, when he struggled back to consciousness, was simple and terrible. He had spent the past several months traveling among the Non-Aligned Worlds, looking for activity by the Shadows—and found it. The Shadows had begun to move, he said; they were openly making alliances and fomenting war between the non-aligned powers. Driven first by fear and then by visions of conquest, many were fighting among themselves—while the Shadows sat back and watched the carnage, waiting to see who would emerge the victor. Our breathing space, such as it was, was over.

Amid these grim tidings, I saw one flicker of hope. The Grey Council would have to act now. Even the warrior caste could no longer hide from the truth I had been telling them for the past three years. But when I asked Drakhenn if the Grey Council knew of this, a shudder passed through him—as if that question caused him more pain than his injuries. He relayed to me what the Council had said: _The problems of others are not our concern_. They had not acknowledged the truth, or the duty that lay before them. Instead—again—they had turned away.

Somewhere in the midst of shock I felt a spark of rage. How dare they. How _dare_ they stand aside while innocent people were dying, when they could help prevent it? How dare they refuse the task before the Minbari people—not because it was beyond our strength, or not ours to do, but simply because they did not wish to be bothered? Or because they were afraid, but had not enough honor to admit it?

I thanked Drakhenn and left him to recover in Dr. Franklin's capable hands. I knew where I must go now—and when I got there, the Grey Council would have much cause for regret.

It took minutes to pack for the journey. I had told Lennier of my purpose on the way here from Medlab, both of us fuming over the Council's actions as we strode through the halls. I could hear in his voice that he felt personally betrayed by the Council's cowardly response. I knew I could safely leave affairs on Babylon Five to him for as long as was necessary. Now it only remained to tell John.

He was shocked, then furious, as Lennier and I had been. "They won't _help_? Your government is telling us we're on our own with this? How in the name of hell—" He took a deep breath and checked himself. "Not to speak ill of your leaders, Delenn—but by God, they deserve me to!"

"Speak as ill of them as you like. I will join you." I paced across his office, growing more agitated by the moment. "'The problems of others are not our concern.' How could they say that? How could they think it? It gives the lie to everything we are—everything we have become since Valen." My anger had hold of me now; words poured out as freely as if I spoke to a second self. "Dukhat would have had their hearts for that. They have betrayed everything he believed—everything he tried to teach them—everything he _was_—" I felt my nails digging into my palms and made myself unclench my fists enough to ease the pain. "If he had lived," I said, more quietly, "they would not have dared respond this way."

The air felt charged with memory and sorrow. "So what does this mean for the war effort?" John said at length. "Will we have any help from your people, or are the Minbari on the sidelines?"

"Not on the sidelines." I spoke with conviction. "If the Grey Council will not lead, then others must. One way or another, my people will be in this fight. It is ours, and we will not turn away."

A slow smile spread over his face. Not a lover's, or even a friend's, but that of a comrade in the moments before battle. "Give 'em hell," he said softly.

I matched his look. "I intend to."

**ooOoo**

Five of the Nine came with me in the end. All who were not warrior caste heeded my call to join the war against the Shadows. As I reminded them, it was not only the warriors who had starships and weapons and people who could fight. Between us, the religious and worker castes controlled two-thirds of our forces; less than we needed in the face of such an enemy, but enough to make a difference. "If the warrior caste will not lead," I told them, "if we have broken our covenant with Valen…"

I took the staff of office then, right from Hedronn's hand. He did not try to prevent me. _You knew this day would come_, I thought, my heart breaking along with the staff as I snapped it in two. _You knew it, Hedronn, as well as I did. Yet you closed your eyes, your ears, your heart. And now here we are, at the end of things. An end that need not have happened if you had heeded the truth._

I did not know if he would heed it now, as I cast the pieces of Valen's staff aside. I could only hope he would. And I wondered, as I swept out of the Council chamber, what else I had cast aside. There would be repercussions from what I had done. The only question was when they would be felt.

In the meantime, we had a war to win. Hurrying toward the _Valen'tha_'s landing bay, I spared a thought for John and the rest aboard Babylon Five, and hoped things had not come to a head with Earth in my absence. It would be the worst of all ironies if I brought back a flotilla of Minbari warships only to find that our "fortress of light" had fallen to our enemies.

Rathenn hurried up beside me. "All is ready," he murmured in my ear. "Three warships will follow you now: the _Mirilenn_, the _Nak'rhain_, and the _Kezhura_. With many others to come at need whenever you call for them."

I knew the vessels he spoke of. The _Mirilenn_ was a Mir clan ship, the other two named for famous artisans of the worker caste. Rathenn had been working for months behind the scenes, forging alliances with the worker caste among the Nine in case the warriors remained obdurate. We had both hoped to avoid this day, but had prepared for it ever since the Nine expelled me from their number. "Will there be pursuit?" I asked him.

"No." He gave a sardonic half-smile. "The warrior caste will rest on its lordly dignity and wait for us to recognize the error of our ways. They do not want a fight. With anyone."

"Let us hope that remains true after this is over." We would take losses in the battles to come; I knew it, and so did the others. While the warrior caste, except for those in the Anla'shok, would remain unscathed, and with the memory of today's humiliation to spur them…

I shook off my dark thoughts. We had reached the landing bay, where my flyer waited to take me back aboard the White Star. There was no time to waste regretting the inevitable. The warriors had chosen, and we had chosen, and there would be consequences. Until then, we had work to do.

Rathenn bowed and bade me farewell, then hurried off on his way to the _Mirilenn_. Three of the others had already gone. Only one was left, the hood of his grey robe still shrouding his face. I knew him by his posture, which just now was tense and rigid.

"Satai Hedronn." I nodded toward him, the slight dip of the head used between equals. "Come this way."

There was silence for a long moment. Then I heard his footsteps following behind me.

**ooOoo**

Hedronn controlled his surprise well as he walked onto the bridge of the White Star, betraying himself only by a slight widening of the eyes. I told the crew to set course for Babylon Five and to relay the coordinates to the waiting warships. Then we jumped into hyperspace.

After awhile, Hedronn came up beside the command chair. "You have been busy." If his voice were any drier, it could wilt tundra grass.

"So have the Shadows. It seemed best."

He winced. "You have made your point, Delenn. Most forcefully."

"And if you had not understood the need for that, you would not be here. So what exactly are we talking about?"

The faint smile he gave me held regret. "I have always admired your ability to speak blunt truth when necessary, no matter what anyone thinks." The smile faded. "I admire it and I envy it. Perhaps that is why I ignored what you were telling us for so long."

I had not expected such a confession. "You gave me the Triluminary."

He made a brushing-off gesture. "One small act against everything else."

"History is made of small acts. So is courage. And victory."

He kept looking out at the nothingness before us—but the tension he had carried since the debacle in the Council chamber began to ease. Shifting to practical matters, I suggested he go and rest. "It will be some time yet before we reach Babylon Five."

"And what shall I do then?"

"Rathenn can tell you what is needed. Your clan is a powerful one, Hedronn; if you rally them, they will come. And it will hearten the worker caste among the Anla'shok to know that all of their own among the Nine are with them."

"So I can be of use."

He sounded so hesitant, it hurt me to hear him. I reached out and placed my hand over his heart in a time-honored gesture of trust. "You have always been of use, old friend. You simply forgot until now."

**ooOoo**

After some hours' rest, I came back onto the bridge. We were nearly there; we should start picking up chatter from the station soon. My heart beat faster at the thought of seeing Babylon Five again, and those aboard her. Especially John, who rarely left my thoughts these days. In a way, he and I were in the same predicament—both of us forced to break from our worlds in order to do what was right. For his sake, I hoped the final break with Earth could be staved off a little longer. I did not know what forces Clark would bring against the station, but I assumed they would be substantial. Morgan Clark was not a man to let anyone under his power go, especially not when aided by the "aliens" he hated.

One of the crew spoke up from her place at the communications array. Reshann, a third cousin of mine, quick-minded and with a knack for languages. "We are picking up transmissions, Delenn. Sorting now…" Her expression changed abruptly from alert to grim. Her hands flashed over the array; a moment later, John's voice echoed across the bridge. Even through the scratchy distortions of static, I heard the urgency in his voice—and the utter exhaustion. "—_ylon Control to Roanoke. Your ship is out of control. Surrender and let us take on prisoners. We promise safe passage to—_"

The rest of his words were drowned out by the roar of a massive explosion.

"The _Roanoke_," Hedronn said quietly. "I believe I recall an EarthForce ship of that name…"

My stomach felt hollow, my mouth dry. "Clark. Babylon Five must be under attack." I turned toward Tanell, our helmsman. "Pinpoint where the EarthForce destroyers are; he will have sent more than one. Reshann, contact the other ships. Tell them to prepare to jump and surround the station."

She did so amid a renewed burst of static. Tanell looked over at me. "Three ships near the jump gate. New arrivals."

_They will be fresh_, I thought. _No battle damage, a full roster of fighter pilots_—My blood pounded in my ears. Each second felt like a thousand.

A harsh voice rang across the bridge. "_This is Captain Drake to Babylon Five. You are ordered to surrender and be boarded by order of President Clark_."

Not if I could help it. "Tanell!"

He knew what I meant without my asking. "We are ready to jump, Delenn. The others as well."

"Do it." I stared out the forward viewport as if my enemy lay dead ahead. "Right down their throats."

Like arrows from a bow, we shot out of hyperspace toward the EarthForce destroyers. Our warships eased into a defensive formation, with the opposing vessels in range of their forward guns, while the White Star raced toward the jump gate. "Open a channel," I told Reshann. "To all of them. I want them to hear every word."

The destroyers coalesced on our viewscreen—one on point, the other two slightly behind. The sight of them brought a fresh jolt of fury. I let it fuel me as I pitched my voice to carry. "This is Ambassador Delenn of the Minbari. Babylon Five is under our protection. Withdraw, or be destroyed."

The arrogance in his answer proved Captain Drake a fool. "Negative. We have authority here. Do not force us to engage your ship."

_Authority_? To assault my human kindred and our home, and the quarter of a million others who lived there? I would show this arrogant _vrakesh_ what _authority_ meant. "Why not? Only one human captain has ever survived battle with a Minbari fleet. He is behind me. You are in front of me. If you value your lives, _be somewhere else_."

The EarthForce vessels hung motionless for several seconds. From the corner of my eye, I saw Hedronn raise a hand to cover his mouth. "No powering of weapons," Tanell murmured. Then, slowly, the lead destroyer turned. The others followed, and all three lumbered back through the jump gate.

Not until the last flicker in the gate died away did I ease my white-knuckled grip on the arms of the command chair. A ripple of something that might have been relief, if anyone aboard the White Star had admitted to fear in the first place, went around the bridge. Reshann's shoulders relaxed; Tanell unclenched his jaw. "Orders, Delenn?"

"Tell the warships to keep a protective cordon around the station. Patrol pattern five. The White Star will join them." I loosened my own stiff muscles as unobtrusively as I could. "In the meantime, I will go and find out what I can."

Hedronn caught my eye as I stepped down. His eyes gleamed, and the smile he had tried to hide tugged at his lips. "'Be somewhere else,'" he said.

Sudden, giddy joy swept through me. The station had survived; John was alive and well. And Morgan Clark would think twice before trying to take our haven away from us again.

Hedronn joined me as I left the bridge. "I will go to the _Mirilenn_ now. It should be safe enough." We parted ways in the landing bay, each of us heading toward separate flyers.

"Hedronn?" I called out, just as he reached his. When he turned to me, I bowed—deeper than the last time, a gesture of profound respect. "Welcome back to the fight."

The grin he gave me was almost jaunty as he disappeared through the flyer hatch.


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note: **Dialogue in certain scenes is quoted from "Severed Dreams" and "Ceremonies of Light and Dark". Gapfiller scenes are my own.

**Part 26—Homecoming**

The sight of John, waiting for me in the passenger area of the main docking bay, brought me a different kind of giddiness. He wore no uniform jacket, and thankfully appeared unhurt save for a minor abrasion at his temple. When our eyes met, I never wanted to look away.

We greeted each other, and he led me off to one side away from the stream of people. "I've been trying to think of some way to tell you how much what you did means to me," he said, sounding a little giddy himself, "and… well, 'thank you' seems poor and inadequate." He sobered as stronger emotion took over. "I don't know how much this cost you personally, and I suspect I never will—but I just wanted you to know that… seeing your face at that moment was probably the single finest moment of my life."

_Kindred_, I had called them in my mind. _Home_. And so they were, and so this place was. As for John himself… I knew the Minbari word I wanted, but _shanmai_ had no English equivalent. It meant more than friend, and less than lover—for we were not lovers yet—but it hinted at bonds of heart and soul that made such a union possible. What could I say that would serve in its place? "It seems this is the only home many of us have left," I said. A word that might suit came to me then, and I went on. "How could I abandon, as you say, my partner?"

He looked puzzled, and I felt a moment's doubt. Then he took the hand I held out to him and raised it to his lips. They felt warm and soft, and everything around us seemed to fade into the background…

A cough, too close, broke the enchantment. I glanced toward the sound and then abruptly away. Away from Stephen's too-sober face, Garibaldi's sly grin, Susan's knowing eyes. I took refuge in small details: the cane Garibaldi leaned on, the overly hearty sound of John's voice as he asked Stephen how Susan was. What had just happened between us, I tucked away in a corner of my heart, like a bright gem safely wrapped and stored from view. He had held my hand all night on the White Star… brought me flowers… and kissed me, four times now, each time more as a lover would…

Hope brimmed over as Ivanova led us into the Zocalo, where a cheering throng waited. I felt John's arm slip around my shoulders as if it belonged there.

**ooOoo**

I relived that memory many times over the next three days—three days in which I scarcely saw John, or could even recall which end was up. Between his attempts to impose order on a suddenly independent Babylon Five, and my coordinating strategy with the Minbari warship captains and Rathenn, as well as Sinclair and caste and clan leaders still in Minbari space, we were half-crazed with frantic activity and crushing fatigue. He called me once, briefly; I called him the next evening, equally briefly. We talked of little that I can remember; it was enough simply to remind ourselves that the other existed. It struck me that this was a perfect time for the _nafak'cha_, a Minbari rebirth ceremony. Babylon Five had passed through fire and come out relatively unscathed; but her leaders and inhabitants were forever changed. As was I, and the Minbari I had brought with me. Such changes must be marked, the old life honored for what it was, the new life for what it would bring. I asked John's permission to hold the ceremony in one of our fleeting interludes together (five minutes' walk side-by-side down the corridor being the best we could manage), and set Lennier to making preparations. This particular _nafak'cha_ would also mark a victory against the rising darkness, personified by the Clark regime. A victory prematurely declared, as I was soon to discover.

It is an effort to recall things now, and I never did know most of their names… but I remember vividly the hard-eyed men of the Night Watch who took me prisoner. They hoped to blackmail the Minbari flotilla into departing Babylon Five space, leaving the station defenseless against Clark's forces. They also intended to kill me, and blame John for my death. They reckoned without his strength of will, and the intelligence and dedication of our friends.

Garibaldi was relentless in his hunt for any clue to our whereabouts—ably aided by Marcus, who had cultivated considerable resources among the station's less savory residents. Marcus blamed himself, of course. He had been escorting me to the docking bay where we were to meet Fleet Captain Lennan of the _Mirilenn_. Lennan wanted a tour of the station he had helped to save, and I was happy to oblige. I did not anticipate trouble. Nor did Marcus, or he would not have left me so abruptly. I told him later he might as well blame me; he would not have left me in the docking bay if I had not pressed him to face personal guilt he was not ready to let go of. But he refused to absolve himself, and in the end the entire incident became just one more burden for him to carry.

I wondered, years later, if I could have helped him more. Should have helped him more. That question became my burden, and it had no answer. Only Marcus himself could have told me, and by that time he was gone.

The Night Watch timed their action well. I carried no weapon; nor did Lennan, or the two crewmen who accompanied him. One of them died in the initial assault; the other, Lennan's aide Merann, took a PPG blast high in the shoulder that left an ugly, painful burn. Our kidnappers—five of them, one with a scarred face and another with soulless eyes—hustled us away at gunpoint. They blindfolded us one at a time before moving us out. I remember stumbling along in the corridors, shaken and disoriented, trying to work out where we were by sound and scent and memory. I gleaned few clues, though at one point the odors of stagnant water and refuse told me we must be in Brown or Grey Sector. We had also gone down; I remembered the quiet hiss of lift doors, followed by a sinking sensation. Throughout our journey, one other sound tore at my heart—Merann's labored breathing, drawn through his teeth. The thought of what else these jackals might do to him made me sick inside.

A shove in the small of my back sent me staggering into a room, with overheated air and a faint smell of coolant. Beside me, Merann cried out softly. I heard Lennan growl an insult, followed by the sound of a blow.

"Shut up, bonehead," said a voice—hard and smooth as glass, utterly lacking in emotion. A hand ripped the blindfold from my eyes, and someone pushed me toward a chair in the middle of the chamber. I saw giant metal coils and other pieces of machinery; we were in a storage room, though one not used much to judge from the thick layer of dust.

"Sit," another of our captors barked. The scar on his face marred his right eye and pulled down the corner of his mouth, as if from a stroke. He nodded toward a dark-haired, bearded, stocky man, the one with the soulless eyes. "Tie them," he said, and left the room.

They bound us all—even Merann, injured as he was. No one tended to him, nor would they permit me or Lennan to do so. Before long, the scar-faced man returned. The half of his mouth that functioned properly was grinning with smug satisfaction. Word was out, he said. Upon ascertaining that communications from this dank storeroom could not be traced, he placed the ransom call.

His demands, when he reached John, were entirely predictable. Tell the Minbari flotilla to leave within the next few hours, or our lives were forfeit. "Just to show you I'm serious," he said; Garibaldi had called him Boggs. He nodded to the soulless one, who grabbed Merann and hauled him roughly upright.

I knew what was coming then and cried out, though protest was useless. Lennan strained against the ropes that bound him, to no avail. The soulless one shot Merann, burning away half his face. Then he dropped Merann's shell to the floor like a piece of refuse.

Beside me, Lennan went still. I glanced at him, and what I read in his face did not bode well for Merann's killer. Should Lennan break free, the soulless one would not live five seconds.

Time passed slowly. The soulless one stood guard over us, empty of expression, PPG at the ready. The one named Boggs glanced once at Merann's corpse, then at Lennan and I. His gaze was scornful, challenging; he was waiting for one of us to ask to tend to Merann's body, so he could deny us that comfort. He did not know Minbari very well. Merann's remains were irrelevant, had been from the moment of his death. He was free of whatever indignities these evil men thought they were inflicting, and we would grant them no more power over us than they already had. Instead, with infinite patience, Lennan worked at his bonds.

Boggs left after awhile, on what errand we did not know. Lennan and I spoke little, all in our own tongue. Before long, he murmured, "I think I've loosened these ropes."

The soulless one was between us in a heartbeat. "Then we should tighten them!" He yanked viciously at Lennan's bonds, then at mine. I felt the rope cutting into my skin, but managed to show no pain. "I picked up your language from some POWs I took during the war," he said, after we were trussed once again to his satisfaction. "It came in real handy when I told them to start digging their own graves. You do realize, of course, that neither of you is getting out of here alive. Got any thoughts about that?"

I did, as it happened. Was there any point to sharing them? He wished me to, so he could humiliate me. That game, I would not play. Yet it seemed to me, as I held his empty gaze, that there might be some purpose in answering him after all. "Yes. I feel sorry for you."

"Me?" Something flickered in his dark eyes, too briefly to read. "You feel sorry for me? Now that's comedy." Anger showed beneath his contempt. "So how do you figure you feel sorry for me?"

He truly did not know, could not see his own actions for what they were. So I told him. "Among Minbari, one individual leads, but we move as one. We are at our best when we move together… and we are at our worst when we move together." I saw Dukhat's face in my mind then, and had to glance away for a fraction of a second. "When our leader was killed by your people, we went mad together. We stayed mad for a very long time—a madness that almost consumed your world. Until finally—before it was too late—we woke up, together." And thank the Universe we had, though this man would never understand why. "But you… you are alone. You have no one to awaken you from your madness. For this, and nothing else, I feel pity for you."

His eyes were no longer empty. Pure hatred shone from them. He swore, raised his weapon and aimed it at my head.

Lennan lurched up with a cry of rage. He threw himself forward, knocking the soulless one off his feet. The PPG shot went wild. A snapped length of rope flew through the air as Lennan, his hands free, rounded on a second assailant. Then the soulless one regained his footing and shot Lennan in the shoulder. With a grunt of pain, Lennan crumpled to the deck. The soulless one raised his weapon again and pointed it straight at me.

Behind him, the door opened. Boggs stepped through, rushed over and slapped down the soulless one's gun arm. "Stop it! What are you, crazy?"

The soulless one glared, but kept his gun lowered. "Maybe. Ask _her_."

Slowly, I began to breathe again. Lennan was injured now, and I had come seconds from death—but we had also learned something important. These men had little control over their rage, or the fear that drove it. We could use that if we got the chance.

More hours dragged by. They gave us no food or water, nor did anyone tend to Lennan. The flash-burn of the PPG had cauterized his wound; ugly as it looked, at least he would not bleed to death. My muscles felt cramped from sitting so long in the same position, and my arms burned with strain. I showed nothing of my discomfort. Nor did Lennan—he bore his pain with stoic courage, the fury that had driven him to fight once again tightly leashed. They were looking for signs of weakness, and we would not oblige them. I wondered what John was doing now—whether Garibaldi, or Marcus, or even Ivanova who knew everything, had yet figured out where we were. Was rescue even now on its way… or had they made no progress at all in finding us?

I knew what Lennier would be doing, and the knowledge made my throat ache. He would keep preparing for the _nafak'cha_. I did not know how much time had passed, but Lennier would do what he could until we were rescued or our kidnappers' six-hour deadline ran out. He would be frantic, desperate to aid in the search for us rather than leave it all to others—but the _nafak'cha_ was the last thing I had asked of him before the Night Watch took us, and he would honor that request no matter what it cost him. He was like that—braver and more steadfast than he knew, or ever gave himself credit for.

I did not dare risk provoking the soulless one again. He would almost certainly kill me, hostage or no. I did not fear death, but neither did I seek it. I kept myself in a light meditative state, easily breakable should some unforeseen chance to escape arise. Lennan was doing the same; despite his wound, calm radiated from him like ripples in water. If anything happened, we would be ready to take advantage of it.

As the final hour elapsed, our captors grew tense. Boggs began to pace and mutter to himself. They were all on edge as the minutes ticked by. All except the soulless one, who grew calmer. At the prospect of our deaths, I assumed. Boggs had promised him a free hand with Lennan and I once we were no longer needed; when the deadline finally came, he could slay us however he chose. Slowly, was my guess, and with a great deal of pain.

The Babcom unit in our prison chamber flickered on. A Security officer's face appeared. A breath of hope died in me as he addressed Boggs; he was working with the Night Watch. "The Minbari have pulled out," he said. "See for yourself. Going to Securecam Two."

The picture changed to a view outside the station. Disbelieving, I saw a Minbari war cruiser turning away from Babylon Five, then vanishing through a jump point.

A grim Lennan caught my eye. I had nothing to tell him. What was happening defied all sense. The _Mirilenn_ would not leave her captain behind, nor would any of the warship crews set aside the last order I had given them, to protect Babylon Five… My roiling thoughts ground to a halt. Something was up. John and Garibaldi and Marcus and Ivanova had cooked up a rescue stratagem, of which fooling our captors was a part. That was the only explanation. Lennan and I must watch for our chance and break free when it came.

An explosion from somewhere outside shook our prison. The lights flickered, accompanied by the shriek of alert klaxons. "They're coming in," the soulless one said. His hand tightened on the butt of his gun.

"No. That doesn't sound right." Boggs listened intently. We heard loud shouts, then running feet. Boggs strode to the door and went out. I glimpsed people running past, in headlong panicked flight. The chemical tang of coolant was suddenly much stronger.

Boggs must have grabbed one of the fleeing people; I heard a smattering of terrified words. Then he ducked back in, gesturing wildly to the others. "Everybody out! Take them with you—we need them for insurance. Move!"

I was hauled to my feet and shoved out of the room. Acrid vapor filled the corridor, drifting our way. My eyes burned in the seconds before we turned away from the approaching cloud. Another rough shove propelled me down the hallway, Lennan stumbling beside me. It was hard to stay upright with our hands still bound behind us. Any moment, I thought, our rescue party would burst through the haze…

PPG fire lit the air as we rounded a corner into a cargo bay. Two of our captors went down. Two more, those nearest Lennan and I, dragged us backward toward a tower of crates. I caught a confused glimpse of half a dozen Security personnel in riot gear, Garibaldi among them. Also Susan, and John—all armed and shooting, ducking return fire behind shipping crates and canisters, then popping out to fire again.

Panic and elation gave me strength. I stamped on the foot of the Night Watch thug who held me, then elbowed him viciously as he doubled over. His harsh grunt of pain as he staggered sideways, away from me, was pure pleasure. Nearby, Lennan had similarly dispatched his captor and fought free of his bonds. He loped over and undid mine, both of us ducking PPG bolts as he worked. Some of the bolts struck power conduits, sending up showers of sparks. Smoke began drifting through the bay.

As the last coil of rope fell away, a flash of movement caught my eye. The soulless one stood a few feet distant, hunched over as if wounded in the chest. Then I saw his shoulders go tense, the glint of a knife in his hand. His gaze was fixed on John—white shirt gleaming through the smoke, bent over a fallen security guard, back half-turned. Oblivious to his peril.

I screamed his name. He looked up and saw the danger, too late to avoid the blade arrowing toward him.

I did the only thing I could. I threw myself in front of it.

The knife sank into my back. Its impact drove me forward, into John's embrace. Searing pain choked off my breath. Then I was falling, falling down into darkness. The last things I remembered were John's arms hard around me and his voice murmuring my name as if praying to his God.


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note: **The almost-kiss scene, with subtext. Some dialogue is quoted from "Sic Transit Vir". As usual, gapfiller scenes are my own. A big hat-tip also to kungfuwaynewho, who wrote a wonderful alternate version of the almost-kiss scene from Delenn's POV. To the extent any of that was still hanging around in my brain, I owe you a debt.

**Part 27—"Without You In It"**

The darkness ebbed slowly. I heard voices, felt something drawing me through dark waters toward a distant light.

"…stabilized, _now_! Where's that blood—we banked it, goddammit, where is it?—Okay. Okay. Hook her up…"

Stephen. Beeping sounds. Rushing footsteps, people saying things I didn't understand. The light began to fade. Then Stephen again: "Oh, _hell_ no—don't you die on me. Not today. Come on, damn you, _come on_…! That's it. All right. Good girl…"

My body felt heavy and stiff. Somewhere in a distant part of it, pain shrieked to be recognized. _Not yet_, I thought hazily, and let the dark current carry me away.

**ooOoo**

Some time later, I came more fully awake. The shrieking pain I vaguely recalled from what seemed like a nightmare had subsided to a dull ache beneath my left shoulder blade. Beyond my closed eyelids lay brightness and sound: the chirping of medical monitors, a familiar voice softly chanting a Minbari prayer for healing.

Opening my eyes was an act of will. So was speaking. Lennier's name came out in a hoarse croak. The chanting halted abruptly; relief washed across his face. "Delenn," he said softly, then walked to the doorway of the observation ward and called for Dr. Franklin. As he came back, I thought I saw tears in his eyes. "May I get you anything? Water?"

I managed to nod. He slipped an arm beneath my shoulders and lifted me, then pressed a cup to my lips. I opened them, sipped, swallowed. For a moment, it felt as if I had just emerged from the Chrysalis. Then Stephen entered the room, and the phantom memory vanished. He was smiling, but I read concern in his face. "About time you woke up," he said in a joking tone as he eyed the monitors around my bed. "Another hour and I'd have started to really worry. Not just the piddly-shit worrying doctors always do. How are you feeling?"

"Like an exercise mat after denn'bok training…" My head was floating; he must have put me on a painkiller of some kind. I sipped a little more water. "How long…?"

He sobered. "Twenty-two hours."

That was disturbing, on many counts. I turned my head toward Lennier. No words were needed; he understood at once. "How much longer must she stay in Medlab?" he asked as he eased me back down on the bed.

"A few days at least, depending on how fast that stab wound heals up." Stephen looked at me. "You were lucky. A quarter-inch more to the right or downward and that bastard would've nailed a vital organ. As it is, he nicked a rib pretty good and cost you a lot of blood. You're going to be hurting for awhile."

"It is enough to be alive." I meant it—though I felt sharp regret that the _nafak'cha_ could not now take place, as I would not be out of Medlab within the required time to hold it.

I beckoned Lennier downward and murmured in his ear. He nodded and straightened. "I will tell them. Then I will come back and sit with you." With a farewell bow, he left the observation ward.

Stephen reached for a medi-scanner. "What was that all about?"

"The rebirth ceremony…" Exhaustion made it hard to speak. "It must be done within a certain time once preparations are begun."

"And you won't be out of here by then."

"No." I let my eyes close, half-dozing as Stephen worked. Fatigue and pain made me weepy; to my chagrin, a few tears forced their way from beneath my lids. We needed the rebirth ceremony—I needed it. I did not want to put it off because of the actions of a few evil men.

"Hey, now." Stephen set down whatever he had been holding; his hand covered mine. "Everything's going to be okay. Maybe you can do the ceremony another time…?"

We could. Of course we could. I was being foolish, attaching so much importance to it now. Still, I had planned on it, and felt sorely disappointed. The gifts I had intended for John and Susan and Stephen and Garibaldi would have to wait as well…

Or perhaps not. My distress ebbed as I considered. They all knew a little something about the ceremony—and they were my friends… yes, it was just possible they would think of it…

I gave Stephen a small smile to reassure him, and waited for Lennier to return.

**ooOoo**

They came some hours later, as I had hoped they would. Susan, sorrowing for a love lost before it could be explored. Garibaldi, shedding his usual defenses in order to share his deepest fear. Stephen, so terrified of his own secret that he could not even name it—only hint at it in the briefest of words. And John. My beloved, whose words to me that day I have never forgotten. He did not say "love," not then… but it was in every line of his face, in the fierce warm grip of his hands around mine. In the words he _did_ say, the secret he had never told anyone: _I can no longer imagine my world without you in it_.

I wanted so much to answer him. But the keeper of secrets in the _nafak'cha_ does not speak, as a sign that what is told will not be judged. So I answered with my eyes, letting them say what my lips could not: that I loved him, and was honored beyond measure to know he loved me, too.

**ooOoo**

Within the next four days, I drove Stephen crazy enough that he discharged me from Medlab, with a vial of carefully tailored painkillers and a stern admonition not to exert myself for at least another two weeks. Lennier, appointed by Stephen (and himself) as the guardian of my continued good health, escorted me to my quarters and saw me safely propped in a sofa corner with far too many pillows, a steaming pot of tea and a plate of fruit. He fussed so much, in fact, that I had to invent an errand for him simply to get a little peace. (He returned with a copy of _Universe Today_ in record time; it took two more such errands before he recognized the deeper meaning behind them and resumed his usual quiet efficiency.)

We spent an hour going over proposals for a mutual-defense agreement between the Hyach and the Grome, two non-aligned races whose representatives had asked me to mediate their negotiations. Before long, I began to yawn, and Lennier insisted that I rest. "I will assist you to your sleeping room, if you wish," he said, hovering like a mother bird over her injured offspring.

I meant to tell him no, but a closer look at his anxious face changed my mind. "I would be most grateful. Thank you, Lennier." I allowed him to help me up, then leaned on his arm as we traversed my sitting room. We reached the bedroom doors; he slid them back, then stood still without relinquishing his grip on me. "I…" he said, looking downwards.

"What is it?" I asked gently.

He blinked rapidly, his eyes fixed on the half-open doors. "I wish I had been there. In the cargo bay. Helping to rescue you, like everyone else."

I was touched by the depth of his feeling, and saddened by it. "Marcus was not there. Doctor Franklin was not, either."

"Marcus helped find you. Doctor Franklin saved your life." _I did nothing_ was the rest of it, though he did not say so out loud.

"Lennier." I shifted to face him. He of all people had no need to play the hero—I knew his courage and his heart, and valued them more highly than I could say. How to make him understand that? "You have been my rock since the day you came. After the Chrysalis, when I was… different, you did not turn from me. Not like so many others of our people. You understood hardly more than they did, yet you did not condemn. You stood by me, with no thought of your own future." I felt a lump rising in my throat and swallowed past it. "I have no words to tell you how much that means."

"You are my teacher. And you are satai. Still," he said with emphasis, when I would have objected. "The Grey Council did not know itself when it took that title from you. But it is yours. How could I not stand by you, knowing even a small part of the reason for what you have done?"

"Others should have done so, and did not." I brushed my fingers beneath his chin, lifting it just enough to make him look at me. "You have more courage than you know. That you are here, now, after everything, proves it." Memory of his quiet loyalty aboard the _Valen'tha_, his deliberate refusal to acknowledge my disgrace, made my voice shake a little as I continued. "And as I said some time ago… in the darkness and fire that is coming, I could not ask for a braver or better companion."

He searched my face, and I sensed an easing in him. He bowed his head in affectionate respect and released my arm. "Thank you, Delenn. I will let you rest now."

I watched him go, heart-warmed and also troubled by what he had revealed.

**ooOoo**

For the next several weeks, things stayed remarkably calm. Clark's government was still sorting out its options for dealing with the "rebel" station and a nascent resistance in the Earth Alliance; what remained of the Grey Council was resolutely ignoring the desertion of more than half its number to join the fight against the Shadows; the border wars among the non-aligned worlds had stalled into uneasy stalemate; and the Shadows themselves had not yet emerged from behind their puppet regimes to offer open challenge. John took advantage of this unusual state of affairs to invite me to dinner… by candlelight, he said, with a romantic air that was only a little bit exaggerated to win my consent. (I could not resist pretending to take him literally when he asked to "see you tonight"; we'd had few opportunities to laugh together lately, and I missed them.)

I arrived at John's quarters at the appointed time, feeling happy and slightly nervous. This would be our first wholly private dinner—and he had offered to cook for me. According to Susan, cooking a meal for someone was a significant step forward in human dating rituals, especially when the man did the work. The look on John's face when he greeted me suggested I was not the only one experiencing such complex emotions. Knowing this put me more at ease than anything else he could have done. It pointed, again, to the deep connection between us… a connection I hoped we might use this evening to explore. How, I was not certain… but it was John's dating ritual, so I would follow his lead.

He had brought in a low table and Minbari-style cushions, with an eye more to my comfort than his own. He had also cooked flarn, the evidence of which was strewn across his kitchenette (a scene of utter chaos that I tactfully declined to notice). That he had attempted it surprised and impressed me. The multitude of seasonings required for flarn must be carefully balanced—an error, however slight, can ruin it. John never was one to back down from a challenge, though, even when perhaps he should have.

The flarn was dreadful, but after the first few bites I ceased to care. Salt and pepper, swiftly applied when his back was turned, covered a multitude of sins… and he was so happy to see me eating with apparent enjoyment, it was well worth enduring the unintended insult to my tastebuds. We ate, and talked, and laughed, and the easy contentment between us slowly grew another layer. Flashes of yearning shone through it, bright grace notes in the music of our hearts. The simplest motion he made—picking up a fork, tilting his head, catching my eye as he sipped from his water glass—was simply one more reason to love him. And want him. Once, our hands brushed when we both reached for the pepper shaker at the same time. My breath caught, and I felt myself blushing—but far from being an awkward moment, it became one more excuse to share laughter. By the time we emptied our plates, I was eagerly anticipating whatever might come next. He was looking at me the way he had when he kissed my hand in the docking bay… and in my quarters the night I sang to him, when our lips brushed…

A disembodied voice interrupted my happy musings. "Security to all personnel—we have an assault in process, Green Two. Repeat, assault in process, Green Two."

Someone was under attack? In the ambassadorial wing? John's face, suddenly grave, mirrored my own. "That's just one level down. Near Londo's quarters." He dropped his napkin on the table and got up. "I'll be right back," he said, and hurried out.

I sat still for the next few moments, trying to work out what had just happened. One minute we were enjoying our evening, and I was hoping for… something… and then, unlooked-for, the real world intruded. Abruptly, even ominously, taking John away from me. To my shame, I felt a flash of resentment. Why did he have to go charging into the fray? Were there not security personnel whose job it was to intervene? _Stop it_, I told myself, cheeks flaming. Someone was in danger, very close by. Would I really want John to ignore it, or to be the kind of man who could?

I couldn't sit still any longer. I rose and walked across the room. He had said he would be right back. I should wait, and keep calm, and be ready to resume something like a pleasant evening when he returned. I stared for a time at the picture I'd admired, as a ruse to douse my flarn in salt and pepper. It was a mountainscape, the snowy peaks tinged rose with the light of dawn. A new day, a beginning. We had begun something this evening, John and I—a new step down the path, a new turn in our road. Until, as always seemed to happen, a crisis interrupted it.

I turned abruptly away from the picture. John had walked into danger, and I was not there. This must be how Lennier had felt when the Night Watch took me captive. Unlike him, though, I could do something about it.

I left John's quarters and ran for the nearest lift.

**ooOoo**

Whatever had happened in Green Two must have transpired swiftly; it could not have been more than ten minutes since John left me, but the corridors were deserted. I rounded a corner and saw John, alone, leaning against a wall with one hand clamped around his upper arm and a look of pain on his face. Relief that he was alive warred with fear that he was injured. I hurried toward him. "What happened? Are you hurt? How badly?"

He glanced up in surprise at my arrival, then tried to smile. Pain twisted it into a grimace. "I've had worse," he said as I reached him. "It's not very deep. Looks ugly, but probably no big deal."

I could see blood seeping between his fingers, staining the edge of a tear in his sleeve. I slipped an arm around his waist. "I will help you to Medlab."

"Yeah—that'd probably be a good idea. Thought I could make it on my own, but…" He dropped his uninjured arm around my shoulders and leaned against me as he straightened up. He weighed more than I expected, but I was stronger than I looked.

"Was anyone else hurt?" I asked as we moved slowly down the corridor.

He shrugged, then winced. "Vir took a punch in the mouth. Then Security showed up and—"

"Vir? Someone attacked _Vir_?"

He nodded. "A big Narn, with a very long knife." His eyes were shadowed from more than pain. "Zack Allen had to shoot him. He said something before he died: 'shan'kar'. At least, I think it was that."

"A blood oath." Hearing this disturbed me, especially as it made no sense. Blood oaths were near-sacred among Narns, sworn only to avenge a crime too heinous for any atonement except the death of the perpetrator. "To kill Vir? What could Vir, of all people, have done to merit such a thing?"

"I don't know," John said grimly as we entered the lift and went back up to Blue Sector. "Mistaken identity, maybe? Vir catching blame for what someone else did?"

That didn't make sense, either. "He has been on Minbar for months, as the Centauri liaison. How could he have been wrongly linked to some crime against Narns from there?"

We left the lift and kept walking, John gritting his teeth against the pain of his wound. "I'll ask Ivanova to look into it. Security can find the dead Narn's name; we'll see what Susan turns up." We were near Medlab now. He stopped just shy of the doorway and looked at me, with the ghost of his usual smile. "My charging off like that kind of ruined our evening. How can I make it up to you?"

The first thing that came to mind, I did not dare voice. I took firm hold of myself to keep from blushing and gave him a brilliant smile. "I will think of something."

**ooOoo**

Business as usual descended the next day, and I did not see John until the day after. He did tell me, during a brief call in the late evening, of one curious thing Susan had uncovered—an apparently fabricated Centauri bureaucrat, connected with the Liaison's Office on Minbar, who had recently authorized the transfer of large numbers of Narns from their shattered homeworld to Centauri Prime. The bureaucrat's unusual name—Abrahamo Lincolni—rang a bell in my mind. I had read some Earth history, at Sinclair's urging and John's. Abraham Lincoln was a major leader of one of their early nation-states, connected with a pivotal war that nearly tore it apart. A war over principle, as I recalled, more than resources or territory. An injustice had needed righting, at a high cost in blood. Vir must know of that time in Earth's history as well… though the paperwork signed by "Abrahamo Lincolni" placed the Narns in work camps, which hardly seemed like righting the injustice of the Centauri war against them. I puzzled over it for a time, then put it from my mind and went to bed. Thinking of John, and wondering how the other night might have gone had the attack on Vir not intervened.

Finally, in mid-afternoon the next day, I had a little breathing space. John was not in his office, so I decided to drop by his quarters. He was there, struggling into his uniform jacket; the slash on his arm clearly still pained him, and he was having trouble with the fastenings. With no more thought than if he had been Mayan, or Lennier, or anyone else in need of a little help, I went to him and took over the job. He protested, but feebly; he seemed to like having me so close, with less than a handspan between us. As I worked my way upward, my hands drawing near his face, a breathless daring came over me. It would be so easy to touch him in a way that left no doubt of my intent. And equally easy for him to respond in kind…

I kept my eyes on my fingers, not quite daring to meet his gaze. "I heard that when it happened, Vir was with a woman. Apparently they are to be married soon."

With my hands on his chest, I felt as much as heard his answer. "So I understand. Must be the shortest courtship on record. She only got here yesterday."

"Perhaps you should check the air recycling system." I did look up then, and what I saw in his face made my heart beat faster. "There may be, as you say, something in the air."

He cradled my hand in his, smiling slightly. "Maybe there is at that," he murmured, and bent his head toward me. I felt his breath on my skin and waited eagerly for the sweet, warm pressure of his lips on mine—

Fate, in the form of Susan Ivanova, chose that moment to intervene. The Babcom unit chirped, followed by Ivanova's voice. Shocked and stammering; we were standing right in front of the screen, and she could not have avoided seeing what she had interrupted. "Captain, I—oh. I… I'm sorry, I—"

We let go of each other abruptly. Much as I loved Susan, in that moment I could cheerfully have strangled her. Face flaming, I looked away, while John reassured her in an overly hearty voice. "No, no—it's all right." A swift glance at me, half regretful and half amused. "What is it?"

Even over the monitor, she avoided my eyes. "I think you'd better meet me in Londo's quarters ASAP. It turns out we've got a serious problem with Vir."

"On my way." A sigh escaped him as she ended the call. He looked at me as if he wanted to say a thousand things, but could not choose which. "I have to…"

"I know." I managed to smile, though I felt far from happy. The closeness and desire of moments ago had turned hopelessly awkward, and I had no idea what to do. That he didn't either was small comfort. My hand went to the back of my neck, toying with the silken weight of my hair. The gesture, normally soothing, was no help this time. I knew it had betrayed my discomfort, which only added to my embarrassment. "Of course. I should go…"

I heard him draw in a breath as I turned toward the door. Whatever he would have said was lost as I hurried out and away, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else.


	27. Chapter 27a

**Author****'****s****Note:**This chapter covers "A Late Delivery From Avalon" and "Ship of Tears", and quotes dialogue from the latter episode. Gapfiller scenes and subtext, as always, are my own. (With grateful thanks to Mira Furlan and Andreas Katsulas for the gorgeous acting in the Delenn/G'Kar confession scene; they made it so easy to write what's going on in the characters' heads.)

**Part 28—Atonements**

The Zen garden was a less soothing place to be than usual, given how many times John and I had met there. I paced up and down by the little waterfall, questioning my own motives. Was I waiting for him to come here? Hoping for it? Hoping for a chance to excuse my forwardness… or to repeat it, this time with better results? I gave up on the garden and fled to my quarters, where a silent hour of meditation restored me somewhat to myself. Honesty compelled me to face my uncertainties about that interrupted moment with John. I was not sure how to take his awkwardness at the end. Was it merely that our private closeness had come to someone else's attention? Or had I pushed him into something—a declaration, through a lover's kiss, that he was not fully ready to make? _I__ can __no__ longer __imagine __my __world__ without__ you __in__ it_, he had said… but those words were born of his fear for me, and the blazing rush of thankfulness that I had not died for him when my kidnapper's knife struck home. That they were true, I did not doubt… but how fully he acknowledged them, and what that might mean for a man who had lost a beloved wife not long ago, I couldn't say. Perhaps Ivanova's bad timing was nothing of the sort. Perhaps it was the Universe's way of reminding me that there were steps still to be taken before John and I could come together in the way I wanted—mind and heart, body and soul.

Lennier's arrival with several data crystals and an armful of flimsies recalled me to my duties, and we spent the next few hours buried in the details of how best to adapt Anla'shok training to the physical and cultural idiosyncrasies of the Pak'mara. We had as yet very few Pak'mara recruits, but as word spread among them, I expected there would be more. I couldn't help thinking of G'Kar, with a pang of guilt. He deserved to know about the Anla'shok, and the war council, and everything else we were keeping from him. Yet I shrank from it. Certain truths he was owed would be hard to tell; selfish though it was, I wanted to put off that particular day of reckoning for just a little longer.

Thoughts of G'Kar led me to Vir, and the Narns he had transferred by subterfuge to Centauri Prime. Why Abraham Lincoln, I wondered, but had no answer. The viewscreen full of endlessly scrolling data was beginning to make my head ache; I sent Lennier off to get himself some supper, pleading fatigue as my excuse not to join him. He bade me farewell and left, with a look of concern he could not quite conceal. He had hovered more since the kidnapping, and I was still working out the best way to discourage him from this without injuring his dignity or appearing to devalue his service.

He had not been gone half an hour when John turned up. The sound of his voice outside my door made my heart flutter, and I cursed myself for a fool even as I let him in. I could not even hear him speak without melting inside—how was I to conduct myself in the face of that? I wanted Mayan suddenly, or Susan; someone who could help me make sense of my own heart, and of what I should do next.

His gaze flicked toward me and away again as he came inside. His smile was tentative and he held himself as if unsure of his welcome. "I, uh… I thought you might want to know about Vir," he said.

"Yes." Thank the Universe, I had dimmed the lights somewhat after Lennier left; I had no idea what my face might have revealed otherwise. "Ivanova said there was a serious problem…?"

The set of his shoulders eased a fraction. "Turns out there wasn't, thank God. Not what we thought at all. Considering it was Vir, we should have known better. Though it kind of is a problem for him, I guess. Londo was pretty put out."

I risked a few steps toward him. I wanted to touch him so badly, it almost hurt not to. "About what?"

"Abrahamo Lincolni." He tilted his head. "You've read about Lincoln, right? The American Civil War?" At my nod, he continued. "Turns out Vir's fake bureaucrat wasn't sending Narns to work camps on Centauri Prime after all. He set up his own version of an Underground Railroad—creating a false paper trail, then spiriting the Narns to safety any place he could."

This news delighted me, all the more for how unexpected it was. "He has a good heart… but I never would have thought…"

"Me either. He always seems so timid… and this is going to cost him." He sobered at that. "Anyway, I thought you'd want to know. Since he did this through the Liaison's Office on Minbar…"

He sounded as if he had said all he came for. I didn't want him to leave, not without some clearer sign of how things were between us. I asked the first question I could think of; anything to keep him in the room. "How many?"

The broad smile came back. "Two thousand. And Susan thinks we can get more out, even with Vir recalled—why waste a perfectly good fake bureaucrat, as she put it."

"Londo has not yet spoken to me about Vir. I will say nothing to my government until he does. And then I think I will take my time about it." We grinned at each other, co-conspirators in a successful scheme. The constraint between us vanished as if it had never existed.

"Have dinner with me," John said. He gestured toward the pile of flimsies and my still-open data reader. "You're up to your ears in work, and so am I… but at least we could have an hour to just… be together, and talk. I can bring takeout; you won't have to pretend not to look at my messy kitchen, with flarn debris all over the place. Pad thai or something, from that little place near the south end of the Zocalo—I remember you liked it… Can't recall the name to save my life, but I'm pretty sure I can find it again…"

The sudden eagerness that made him trip over his words made me laugh. "That would be wonderful. Pad thai. Yes." I sounded no more sensible than he, but I didn't care. "When?"

His boyish grin widened. "Now?"

"All right."

"All right, then. I'll just go pick something up."

He didn't move. Neither did I. We simply stood, an arm's length of air between us, beaming at each other. Then he shook himself slightly and moved toward the door. "I'll be back," he said, and left.

I drifted toward the counter between my sitting-room and kitchenette and leaned against it. My doubts from earlier seemed foolish now, overwrought. All was well between John and I—and would be, provided I did not rush things. Part of it was fear, I realized suddenly… fear that the war against the Shadows would claim him, or me, or both of us, before we could truly come together. The bond between us was still forming—if mischance sundered it too soon, the loss would be more than I could bear.

Naming that fear gave it boundaries I could grapple with. For the moment, I set it aside. John would be back soon, and I wanted to enjoy our stolen hour… even if there were no more to it than being in each other's company. Time enough to deal with darker thoughts afterward, in meditation before sleep.

Months later, I would recall this moment with bitter irony. I had seen what was coming, yet failed to recognize it. Perhaps because I, all unknowing, had set it in motion.

**ooOoo**

Forgiveness is a strange thing. So easy to give to others, so difficult to give to oneself. In light of what would happen at year's end—the well-intentioned error I had made with John that I was forced to face—it seems an odd sort of omen that I was called on to forgive the man who took Dukhat from me. All unknowing, of course—David McIntyre, the gunner aboard the _Prometheus _all those years ago, had simply obeyed an order from his captain to fire on a faceless "enemy" ship. Our ship, the _Valen__'__tha_. Meaning no threat to the humans' vessel, but they did not know that. Could not know it, being strangers to our ways and unable to communicate for the critical seconds in which their captain made his fateful choice. It could not be coincidence, I thought when McIntyre came, that years later he had made his way to Babylon Five. In the grip of a delusion that he was one of humanity's ancient heroes: King Arthur, proud defender of those who could not defend themselves. In search of me, whom he had cast in that same legend as the dying king's healer, the Lady of the Lake. And in desperate need of forgiveness in order to shed his pain, symbolized by the sword he carried. He blamed himself for the Earth-Minbari War: the savage fighting, the slaughter, the near-destruction of his own people.

He was a large man and strongly built, yet he looked frail lying there in Medlab, staring at nothing with glassy eyes. The sword lay lengthwise atop him, its hilt clutched in his hands. I had not been certain, when Marcus and Stephen first came and told me what was required, whether I could forgive McIntyre. Whether I could look upon the face of the man whose action had killed Dukhat—had given me such pain that, in a moment of madness, I turned it against all of humanity, with disastrous results—and truly, honestly absolve him. Seeing him there, silent and broken with the weight of his grief, I found I could. I knew it so well, that grief. I carried it also.

I went to him, laid my hand on his. Eased the sword from his grasp. As he felt the metal slide out from beneath his fingers, he blinked and our eyes met. His were blue-grey and clear, full of wonder like a child's as he saw me clearly for the first time.

I could not speak—words were too blunt, too indelicate—so I let my feeling show in my eyes as I lifted the sword from him. _Rest__ easy.__ Lay__ down__ your__ burden.__ Your__ suffering__ is __atonement __enough._

He smiled at me, and the sweetness of it went straight to my heart. Then he let out a long breath and closed his eyes.

The sword felt as heavy as a denn'bok. The magic of ritual made it more than just a length of forged metal with a cross-shaped piece at one end. It was guilt and absolution, atonement and acceptance. I brought it to Stephen and Marcus, who waited outside the observation ward. Marcus had found a length of heavy silk somewhere, large enough to wrap the sword in. Reverently, as if tending to the remains of someone beloved, he shrouded it in the fabric while Stephen and I held the blade steady. "If he wants it back, he has only to ask," I told them quietly. "Until then, I will keep it for him. For all of us, in memory."

As I carried the sword back to my quarters, I thought briefly of the young Minbari who had brought Sinclair and I tea and fruit on my visit there sometime back. He had looked at me with awe, as a figure out of legend. Now I was part of a human legend… for one human, at least. A strange symmetry there, yet welcome.

Other, harsher symmetries were to come.

**ooOoo**

I had cause to reflect further on forgiveness a week later, when word reached John that G'Kar was—again—agitating for admission into what he termed our "new alliance." He had guessed only part of what we were doing, and a small part at that… but even in that fragment, he saw hope for his people, and he would not be denied. After learning from Susan that G'Kar's patience was running thin—and having been reminded of his own pledge to include G'Kar once he had proved himself—John came to me for a sober and long overdue conversation. "So far, G'Kar's kept his promise. He helped bail us out of a real situation during our fight with Earth. He's proven he can be a major asset to us," he said, as the pair of us sat in my kitchenette that evening. I had made tea, as I always did, but neither of us drank much and it had long since gone cold. "I'd just hoped to postpone this a little."

"I know." I stared down at my own cup. "He has been poking around for some time now… asking about Rangers, our meetings, the war council."

"He was also the first one to warn me about the Shadows. Many months before you said anything."

Remembering my fruitless urgings to Kosh on just this subject, I found it was something of a sore point. I had not wished to hold back, and I reminded John why. He acknowledged as much, then put his finger on the crux of the problem: "The Centauri never could have taken Narn without help from the Shadows. How are we going to tell him that we were willing to sacrifice his world to keep a secret?"

_Deceit __by__ silence __is__ as__ frost__ to__ the__ heart_, as the Minbari saying went. I felt the truth of it, hard and cold as glacier ice. "_We_ will not have to. I will tell him."

He looked dismayed. "Absolutely not. Delenn, I—"

"It was my decision, John. I held back the information from you for months—and it was Kosh and I who insisted you tell no one else. The choice was mine; and now the responsibility is mine." That principle had been taught me virtually from birth. I could no more shirk it by letting him take part of the blame than I could live without breathing.

He saw it in my face, but protested anyway until a summons from Ivanova forestalled him. Something about a meeting, and being ready whenever he was. He answered her briefly, then said to me, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

It was harder than I expected to respond. "Want to? No. Have to? Yes."

We spoke briefly of other things before he departed. He and Ivanova would be leaving the station for a time, he told me, aboard the White Star; Mr. Bester of the Psi Corps had made a clandestine visit to Babylon Five, for once with no apparent nefarious purpose. Instead, he had brought confirmation of one disturbing development, and word of another. The Shadows _had_ infiltrated Psi Corps, and they had plans for at least some of Earth's telepaths. Plans that rivaled Bester's, whatever those might be, and that he was willing to act against. "He says he overheard something about a Shadow convoy escorting a ship full of weapons components through hyperspace. He can find that ship for us. Apparently, hyperspace bumps telepathy way up." He scowled. "I don't trust him any further than I could toss a Starfury, but he does not like the Shadows mucking around with 'his' telepaths. He actually called them that—his. He really wants to get this ship, and whatever it's carrying. So Susan and I will take the White Star… and I'd like to borrow Lennier, if you can spare him."

"Of course." I did not trust Bester either, little as I knew him. We had only met once, but something about him made me think of ice shards pointed at the heart. "When will you need him?"

"First thing in the morning, if he can—0800 hours."

I nodded, then frowned. "What are these weapons components Bester speaks of?"

"I don't know. He says he doesn't, either." His grave look softened. "Listen… do you want to put off talking with G'Kar until I get back? I could at least give you moral support…"

The offer touched me, but it would be easier without him. Humans say confession is good for the soul… but sometimes, a hard truth is best told only to the one most concerned with it. I thought also there was a good chance John would jump in, try to take blame that was not his. I couldn't allow that. "No. The sooner I do it, the better." I managed a smile for him. "It will be all right."

**ooOoo**

I felt far less sure of that when G'Kar came to my quarters late the following morning. I did not need to watch him enter; indeed, I could not. I managed to greet him, but did not turn to face him. He must have known something was wrong; his steps across the room were uncharacteristically halting. He drew level with me before he spoke, and then said hesitantly: "I have come as you asked, Delenn. You said you had something to tell me?"

"Yes." I could barely get the word out. I gestured him toward a cushioned chair, then sat on one end of the sofa. We faced each other, no more than an arm's length between us, and I realized we had each struck the same pose: stiff-spined, on the edge of our respective seats, hands clasped tight in our laps. Did he suspect what was coming, and did he dread it as much as I did? It was hard to breathe normally; my heart hammered against my ribs, and the pit of my stomach felt cold. I spared a fleeting thought for John, away in hyperspace aboard the White Star, and used it to give me strength.

I could not meet G'Kar's eyes. I bowed my head, gaze fixed on the bright silk of my robe across my knees, and began. "What I have to say concerns the Centauri conquest of your homeworld. We knew that the Shadows—the ancient enemy, as you call them—had returned. We knew they were rebuilding their forces, preparing to strike. We knew they were seeking allies, and that the Centauri were the first to enlist." I gathered my courage, poor excuse though it was, and looked up at him. I owed him the chance to see the truth in my face. "When you came back from the area near Z'ha'dum and warned us about the enemy's return, we could have spoken out. We could have confirmed your story. We chose to remain silent."

He sat frozen, his expression blank with shock. "Who is 'we'?"

"The Grey Council. I was still a part of them at that time." My voice was barely a whisper, yet it seemed loud in the silent air. "Once the decision was made, I could not disobey it."

Something lay behind G'Kar's blankness now… something hard and hurting, bitter as dead hope. A glimmer only, but I knew it would grow as I went on. "So you stayed silent," he said, very softly. "And with the help of these—Shadows—the Centauri destroyed my world. Enslaved or killed millions of my people."

To hear it laid out starkly like that was the lash of a whip across my soul. But there was worse to come. He needed to know the harsh reality, the bitter necessity that I—as he, now—had been forced to acknowledge. "G'Kar… if we had spoken out… if we had gone public with what we knew… most of the other worlds would never have believed us. It would have changed nothing. Your world would still have fallen—with one critical difference." My throat ached; it was hard to keep talking. "There are billions of Narns still surviving on your world. If we had exposed the Shadows, they would have struck openly, before we had time to prepare… and none of your people would have survived."

He stood abruptly and stalked away, his back to me. He was holding so much in—grief, anguish, blind rage. I could see it in the way he held himself, and I could blame him for none of it. "G'Kar," I went on, pleading now, "under the Centauri there is at least the hope of survival. With the Shadows, there is no hope at all." My words took me back, to the Grey Council meeting where I had faced that same hard truth. I had fought it—protested, argued, come near to walking out of the Council Chamber—but in the end, there was no good choice to make. Only the least terrible. G'Kar had to understand that… not for my sake, or the Grey Council's, but for his own. "We had to choose between the death of millions… and the death of billions. Of whole planets."

Not until he replied did I realize he had turned to face me. "I had already discovered much of what you just told me about the Centauri. But that you knew, and said nothing…" His voice broke. At the sound, I felt tears welling up. I recalled the day, more than a year ago, when John and I had told him of our scheme to smuggle food to embattled Narn planets and to take Narn refugees off those same worlds. He had swallowed his disillusionment, pretended to be pleased, and left us, then howled out his anguish in the corridor scant yards away from John's office. That pain was in his voice now. His fists clenched at his sides as he continued speaking. "Had I learned this while my world was being bombed by the Centauri, I would have killed you instantly. You understand that, do you not?"

I would have deserved no better. "Yes. I do."

His furious gaze bored into mine a moment longer. Then his face softened. Something that might have been a smile appeared, through the wetness in his eyes, and somehow that was even more painful than his rage of seconds ago. He slowly walked back toward me and resumed his seat. "Some must be sacrificed if all are to be saved," he said. "At first I took that as revelation for the future. But now I see that it is as much about how we got here as about where we are going. I think that one sentence is the greatest burden I have ever known." He paused, and my tears spilled over. I didn't bother to wipe them away, could not muster the strength to do so. "You're right," he said. "Nothing would have been changed. Except that my people would now be a dead race."

_This_, I thought as I silently wept… _this__ is __the__ man__ I__ feared__ would __fail__ to__ understand __why__ we__ fought_? _Fail __to__ see __beyond__ his__ own__ people__'__s __suffering,__ his__ own__ fury__ at __their__ Centauri__ tormentors__… __and__ as __a__ consequence,__ fail__ our __cause_? How little I knew him, and how unfairly I had judged him. "You have come a long way, G'Kar. Further than I could have guessed." My voice was shaking; I took a breath to steady it. I was not quite finished; there was one vital thing left to say. "Sheridan's promise binds me as well as it does him. We will take you into the council, G'Kar." I did not know I was going to say what came next until the words left my lips. "And someday, when all this is over… perhaps you will find it in your heart to forgive me."

He was crying openly too as he rose, still with that heartbreaking, grief-stricken smile. "Perhaps," he said shakily, as he moved toward the door. "But not today."

He left me then, in silence, trailing pain behind him like the smoke from a funeral pyre.


	28. Chapter 28

**Author****'****s****Note:**This chapter covers and quotes dialogue from "Interludes and Examinations". Gapfillers, etc. are my own.

**Part 29—Sacrifices**

As soon as he could after his return, John gathered us in the War Room. G'Kar joined us there for the first time, a proud and equal ally. It was a sobering story we heard, about the ship full of "weapon components" the White Star had captured in hyperspace. The weapons were telepaths—specifically, human telepaths outside the control of the Psi Corps. "Blips," the Corps called them, a name that dismissed them as less than people. They were things, to be used however the Corps might wish. In this case, as bits of machinery—literally. I knew from ancient records of the last war that the Shadows used sentient beings to power their living ships. The use of telepaths specifically, though, was new and unsettling. An entire ship of them, with a sizable armed escort, could not be random chance; their talents must make them uniquely valuable over non-telepaths. I could think of nothing in the accounts I had read to explain why; the only record that even touched on the subject was a stark discussion of methods for swift suicide should a Minbari telepath be unlucky enough to fall into the Shadows' clutches.

John and Susan were both of the opinion that telepaths posed a threat to the Shadow ships, noting that Bester's mere presence on board the White Star had apparently frightened the Shadow convoy into abandoning their vital cargo. A discovery by Garibaldi in the Book of G'Qan backed up this view. A thousand years ago, the Shadows had slain every telepath among the Narns; none had been born since. Only after killing all the Narn telepaths had they taken up residence on the Narns' native world, using it as a base until they were driven off at the end of the war. The meaning behind that sequence of events had not struck me until Garibaldi voiced it. "We have a weapon," John said as Garbaldi finished, light dawning in his tired eyes. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a weapon!"

"Just in time." The grave voice was Susan's. She held a flimsy in her hand, a dispatch from one of the war zones. "The Shadows have begun attacking worlds in Brakiri space. Openly. They aren't hiding behind proxies anymore."

A hush descended in the wake of her announcement. I caught John's eye and saw there the same weight of knowledge that I felt. The war we had known of, dreaded, done our best to prepare for, was no longer coming. It was upon us.

**ooOoo**

During the next ten days, we all barely slept. Or ate—we threw together meals at random times and bolted them down before hurrying to deal with the next crisis. When we were not trying to calm terrified ambassadors, or figuring out what to do with desperate refugees, or trapped in Advisory Council sessions brimming with white-hot rancor, we spent most of our time in the War Room, where we could best keep track of the rapidly shifting fronts. As they had done before, the Shadows were attacking worlds that belonged to minor powers out near the Rim—in random, senseless patterns that put every planet and every race on edge. No one knew who might be next. John had hoped the non-aligned races would come to each other's aid, but his efforts to persuade them proved fruitless. No one wanted to, as he said, "stick their necks out." They were afraid, he told me, seething with frustration after a failed effort with the Gaim. Afraid of being noticed, of placing themselves next on the Shadows' target list. "How in the hell do you deal with this every day?" he asked me, as we hurried toward what was sure to be another stormy Advisory Council meeting. "You're a diplomat; you put up with this drek all the time. How do you stay sane?"

"That is what meditation is for." I gave him a deadpan glance. "Not that I don't sometimes wish I had become human enough for a good stiff drink as well."

He looked startled, then laughed, though I could see the strain in him. We had moved well beyond the point where my little jokes could do him much good. Everything was crashing down around us—and we had so few resources. The White Star fleet was nearly ready, but _nearly_ wasn't good enough… and Kosh, who should have been our strongest ally, seemed to have gone into hiding. That he was not with John at least some of the time, providing counsel or aid, distressed me. It was Kosh who had set me to find out about John, Kosh who promised to teach him to fight legends; Kosh who brought the Inquisitor to test us both to the point of death, just to prove that we were the right people, in the right place, at the right time. Was not now that time? And what was the testing for, if we were not to stand together with the Vorlons against the ancient enemy?

When station business called John away at the end of the council meeting, I went in search of Kosh. He was not in any of his customary haunts, nor in his quarters as far as I could tell from the utter silence that greeted my repeated requests for entry. His persistent absence was beginning to make me angry as well as uneasy. Where was he, and why was he leaving us on our own like this when we needed him most?

A thought struck me. I turned away from Kosh's door and headed toward the nearest shuttle stop.

After a brief ride and a long walk, I reached the docking bay that housed Kosh's ship. My steps echoed in the cavernous space as I walked out onto the gantry that stretched alongside. The ship seemed to pulse gently, as if it were breathing. I could sense its life-energy, a hum barely above consciousness, like the distant drone of a pipe.

I stopped halfway down the gantry's length, took a breath to steady myself, and laid a hand against the ship's hull. A shiver ran through the vessel, like the twitch of muscles in an animal startled from sleep. I conveyed to it my regret, and my need to speak to the one I was sure was within. "Kosh," I called out softly, knowing he would hear—not through any auditory organ, but mind to mind. "We need help. John needs help. We will never be strong enough to defeat the Shadows unless we all join together… but the others are afraid, and we cannot force them." The memory of John's face in the council room, pale with anger he could not express, brought anger of my own. My voice strengthened. "You chose him. You tested him. And me. We were not found wanting. But now _you_ are wanting. We need your guidance. We need your aid. We need the Vorlons. Why are you hiding away?"

I waited, counting my heartbeats in the silence. A sense of mourning gripped me, sudden and profound. Not mine, I realized after a shocked moment. Kosh's.

The rush of emotion ebbed abruptly, leaving me shaken and half-sick. What was Kosh mourning, all alone in his ship? What did he see, or know, or fear, to prompt such a feeling?

Suddenly I did not want to know. I turned and left, in search of comfort. In search of John.

**ooOoo**

I found him in the War Room, as I had expected. He looked ragged with lack of sleep, slouched in a chair by the conference table. My heart misgave me; I could not add my need for comfort to the weight on those slumped shoulders. If anything, I should be comforting him—but at the moment, I had no comfort to give.

He barely glanced up from the dispatch he was reading as I approached. "It's late," I said as I reached him. "You should rest."

"Oh, I can't. I can't." He turned back to the dispatches and scowled at them. There were circles under his eyes, and every muscle sagged with fatigue. "The reports keep coming," he muttered, tossing them down on the table. "More hit-and-run Shadow attacks. They jump in, blow everything up in sight, and then jump out again. They don't even bother to secure the area. It doesn't make _sense_."

I sat down beside him, wishing I could offer him more than ancient history. "It's the same pattern they used a thousand years ago. It keeps the major powers off-guard… never knowing when to expect an attack."

"But what is the goal? If it isn't about territory, what is it about?"

I stared at my clasped hands on the tabletop. I had no answer for him, though he desperately needed one. Silence stretched between us, heavy as ten feet of snow. He picked up the nearest dispatch and eyed it, then let it drop again. "I don't know, Delenn." He pushed his chair back and stood, then turned and began to pace across the small section of floor between the conference table and the staircase railing. "I don't know. The only way we're going to survive this war is to organize the League, the Narns and as many other races as possible into a cohesive, offensive force." A breath escaped him, almost a laugh, though there was no mirth in it. "It's never been done before. And I can see why. I mean, it's like stacking marbles in a corner." His voice rose in frustration—a response I knew all too well when dealing with my fellow diplomats. "They are hip deep in their own agendas, their own rivalries… I mean, half of them won't even talk to the other half. But what's worse…"

The pause as he trailed off made me look up. His expression was bleak, with a hint of guilt. The last thing I would have expected. It hurt to see it. I prompted him to go on, hoping that would help somehow. Had Kosh seen this—our failure to ally the rest of the younger races, to forge a strong enough fighting force to defeat the ancient enemy? The thought chilled me; I kept my eyes on John, just to avoid thinking it for longer than a moment.

He came back to the table and sat. "I feel like I'm lying to them. You've seen the reports from the front lines. Yes, I have ideas. Some… possibilities. But at this moment, the stone cold fact is that none of us can stand up to those ships. If we could just score one victory against the Shadows—it'd be enough to make some of the others come around." For a moment, faint hope brightened his face. Then his shoulders sagged again. I knew what he was feeling—that there was no hope, no victory to be had. Nor any chance of it on the horizon.

_Declare__ victory__ in your heart and it is yours. _The warrior-caste saying drifted into my mind, as if from somewhere far distant. I could almost hear old Sech Turhan saying it, so long ago in the practice room aboard the _Valen'tha_. I could not bring us a victory by wishing. But perhaps... just perhaps, I might manage a little faith. In spite of everything. Perhaps that was what John needed from me—the only thing I had just now to give.

I met his eyes and spoke with as much conviction as I could. "Then perhaps we should give them a victory."

He stared at me, as if undecided whether to be annoyed or amused that I would say such a preposterous thing. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

The balance tipped a shade toward annoyance. _Good_, I thought. He was often at his best when his blood was up—and even mild anger was far better than despair. "And how do you suggest we do that?"

_Faith__ manages_. I laid a hand on his arm, a reminder that he was not so alone as he felt. He had allies, even if the strongest of them needed persuading to do their part. "I'm sure you will think of something."

I left him then and went to my quarters. There was no use going to Kosh's ship again; he could shut me out indefinitely, and I would lose sorely needed rest for nothing. Instead, I recorded a message and set it to play as soon as he reached his quarters. Ten words: "We have kept our promise. Will the Vorlons keep theirs?"

The answer would not come for many hours. And when it did, I was not prepared for how.

**ooOoo**

Caught up in intelligence reports from the Anla'shok, status reports on the White Star fleet and a string of diplomatic crises, I did not see John until the next evening, when he arrived unexpectedly at my door. He sounded shaken, and when he came in he was pale and drawn, with an angry red gash on his cheek.

I set down the bowl of _rathi_ I had been contemplating for a late supper and hurried over to him. "In Valen's name! What happened to you?"

"An angry Vorlon." He winced as I gently touched the skin near the gash. "Seems it's not healthy to piss Vorlons off."

I scarcely noticed the strange idiom; I was too busy taking in what he had just told me. "_Kosh_ did this? He _hurt_ you?"

He nodded, holding me loosely around the waist. "Damned near killed me. Though I can't say I didn't ask for it. But still." He pulled me close then; I could feel his heart pounding hard as if he had been running.

Sudden, blinding anger swept through me—not at him, but at Kosh. I needed something to do, or several fragile things in my quarters were in danger. I stepped away from John and drew him toward the sofa. "Sit. This needs tending."

"Delenn, it's just a scratch. I'm fine—"

"_Sit_." I pushed him down onto the cushions. "Don't move."

A swift walk to my bathroom helped discharge some of my fury. A small storage cabinet held a clean washcloth and a jar of analgesic ointment that I judged safe for human use; Stephen had given it to me after my change. I dampened the cloth and returned to the sitting-room, where I washed John's wound as gently as I could and slathered ointment over it. "I cannot believe he would do this. That he would do you harm, actual harm… I don't understand how he could possibly—"

A sudden, uneasy thought made me break off. John caught my gaze. "Sebastian," he said quietly.

I let out a long, slow breath. I did not want to think of the Inquisitor now. Nor of Kosh harming John, drawing blood. Nearly killing him. But I had to know.

I sat beside him, the wet cloth stretched taut in my hands. "Tell me what happened."

He did, with the stark clarity of the soldier he was. He had asked for a victory—a small Vorlon engagement against the Shadows, just one or two ships. Enough to show the other races we had real power on our side. "He refused. Said it was our time, not the Vorlons'. Whatever the hell that means." He shifted to the sofa's edge, agitated. "When I pressed him, he flattened me against the wall. How, I don't know. Some kind of telekinesis, I guess. He called me impudent—like I was some punk kid, bothering the grown-ups. Then he walked away. So I followed him, and I didn't let up, and he slammed me into the wall again." He touched the gash on his cheek. "Gave me this, that time. I lost my temper; I asked him, was he going to kill me now? Because that's the only way I'd leave him alone." He ran a hand through his hair. "I think it shocked him, losing control like that. He backed off for about a second, said the time wasn't right. So I asked him…" He wet his lips; his hand fell to his side. "I asked him how many more people had to die because the Vorlons wouldn't get involved. That's when he slammed me against the wall and… kept me there." One hand rose to his throat and rubbed gently. "I thought I was going to suffocate. That he'd choke me to death right then."

The Inquisitor came to mind again—those awful moments when he held my heartbeat in his hand. The memory made me shiver. John was staring into space and did not see. I forced it from my mind as he resumed speaking. "I got a few words out… about Kosh showing his true colors. He let me go then and said he'd do what I wanted." He gave me a crooked smile, though his eyes were troubled. "So I guess we'll get our victory. I don't know when, though. I figured it'd be unhealthy to press too hard for specifics."

I moved close to him and laid my head on his shoulder. His arms went around me, and for a moment I wished there was no such thing as Vorlons, or Shadows, or war. Just this precious bit of time, with John safe beside me. Why had Kosh turned on him? Why hide from us for days, and then offer us nothing except fury and despair?

Only Kosh could answer those questions. But it was already too late.

**ooOoo**

Two days later, John called me to the War Room. "And bring the League ambassadors with you. As many as you can round up."

We arrived in time to observe battle telemetry broadcast from Brakiri space—two Shadow vessels, besieged by Vorlon defenders. The Vorlon ships outnumbered the Shadows, and routed the last of them even as we watched.

Cheering filled the War Room, and a murmur ran through the ambassadors' ranks: surprise, relief, approval. Ambassador Lethke of the Brakiri nodded once, short and sharp, and I knew we had at least one stalwart convert to the notion of our grand alliance. I caught John's eye, knowing he had seen. Never had I been so proud of him as in that moment. The exhaustion and near despair of a few days before had gone; his eyes were alight with hope. We had a chance now, if we made use of it.

In the triumph of the moment, I could almost forget what had led to it. Until much later that night, when events abruptly reminded me.

**ooOoo**

The door chime, and John's panicked voice, roused me from uneasy sleep. Meditation had been hard to reach; my dreams were of endless falling and the sound of shattering glass. "I'm coming," I called, still only half-awake. I had left my night-robe over a chair back, too tired to put it away properly; I grabbed it and shrugged into it, then headed into my sitting room.

The door cycled open. John stumbled in, face pale, eyes wild. "Kosh," he said. "Something's happened. We have to go."

Cold foreboding settled over me. I did not even question, merely followed him into the hall.

Security was already there when we arrived in Red Sector: Mr. Allen, lingering in the corridor near the open door to Kosh's quarters. As we drew nearer, Garibaldi came out and walked over to us. "Looks like a bomb went off in there," he said, his voice low. "Scorch marks all over the walls, though not a trace of any explosive I know of. Weird energy readings. And no body. Just an empty encounter suit and a busted helmet."

I heard my own voice answering, as if my words came from someone else. "There won't be a body." Dazed and sick at heart, I turned away from the dark gap of Kosh's open door. I did not need Garibaldi to tell me was dead. Slain within hours of the victory he had brought us. The Shadows had taken their revenge.

Garibaldi's eyes rested briefly on me. "I was afraid of that." Then, to John: "If I had any way to tell who did this…"

"Never mind." John's voice was rough with outrage and grief. "I know who did it—and you'll never arrest them for it. We'll have to make them pay another way."

"Yeah. I was afraid of that, too." Garibaldi's steps echoed off the bulkheads as he walked away to confer with Mr. Allen. I stared at the nearest wall, watched the red stripe on it blur and waver. It was cold in the corridor. How had I not felt it until this moment?

John came to me then and wrapped me in his arms. We held each other, both in too much pain to speak. "I thought he was angry," he mumured after a time, in a small voice like a hurt child. "He said he wouldn't be with me later, at Z'ha'dum. I thought it was punishment. I didn't—I never—" His voice broke as his arms tightened around me.

The mention of Z'ha'dum turned my heart to ice. What he meant by it, I could not fathom and didn't want to try. Memory came, unbidden, of Kosh mourning inside his ship_.__ For__ John? __At__ Z__'__ha__'__dum?__ Why?_ And then an even worse question:_ When?_

I hid my face against his shoulder, but found no comfort there.


	29. Chapter 29

**Author****'****s ****Note (updated):** This chapter covers part of "War Without End, Part 1". Some dialogue is quoted from that episode; gapfiller scenes and portions thereof are my own. (I always wanted to see Delenn's reaction to getting that 900-year old letter from Valen…) I've made a slight change to fix a continuity glitch, regarding exactly when Delenn finds out for certain that Valen/Sinclair is her ancestor ("Atonement", Season Four). Thanks to an alert reader for catching my goof; I have altered one of Sinclair's lines in section four of the chapter to take this part of canon into account.

**Part 30—Crossroads of Time**

The loss of Kosh was a blow to us both, though John and I rarely spoke of it in the days that followed. "I wish I could call my dad," he told me once, during a quiet moment in the Zen garden. "I know he's fine, really, but—" He could say no more. I went to him and held him, giving and taking comfort in the same gesture. I felt sorely in need of it; I had lost a mentor and a friend, and sorrow for Kosh colored my meditations for some time after his passing. I have known death many times in my life, both before and since—yet with each one, the weight of absence is fresh and raw as an open wound.

Lyta was devastated. Away from the station at Kosh's behest when the Shadows attacked, she had felt him die. She returned to us dry-eyed and desolate, brittle with the effort of pretending nothing had happened. The Vorlon government asked us to keep Kosh's death hidden; they would send another to replace him, with no one the wiser. Lyta agreed to go along with the subterfuge, but it cost her to mourn Kosh only in private. She felt, she told me later, "like someone ripped out a piece of my heart and I'll never get it back."

I tried to comfort myself with the thought that at least Kosh had not died in vain. The Vorlon defense of Brakiri space had rallied the non-aligned worlds; every day, more of them flocked to our banner. I spent many hours working with John, arranging for additions to the ad hoc fleet defending the station and mediating mutual-defense talks between rivals turned allies. Exhaustion took its toll on us both, and we had little time for personal moments, but we took what we could get. Meanwhile, I waited with growing impatience for Sinclair's final report on the White Star fleet. The last thing I expected was Sinclair himself.

Several days after Kosh's death, my morning meditation was interrupted by an incoming-message chime from my Babcom unit. The sound was swiftly followed by a familiar golden glow and Draal's booming voice. "Profound apologies for interrupting, but I have found something you need to see. Go and look at what I sent you. You will scarcely believe it. I had a hard time believing it myself. But the Great Machine does not lie."

He was pacing, I discovered when I opened my eyes, and sufficiently perturbed to be unaware that his holographic self was passing back and forth through the low table by my sofa. When he saw he had my attention, he nodded toward the Babcom unit. "In there. Two records. Take a look."

I called up the records and watched them in growing astonishment. I knew, of course, about the mysterious disappearance of Babylon Four—Babylon Five's predecessor—six Earth years ago. The first of Draal's records showed the evacuation of Babylon Four after its brief and inexplicable reappearance a mere three years ago, in the region of nearby space known as Sector Fourteen. Sinclair and Garibaldi both had assisted in the evacuation before Babylon Four vanished again into a tachyon rift. The rift, smaller now, was still there, and Sector Fourteen had been off-limits to all ships ever since.

The second record set my heart to pounding. "The Great Machine recorded this six years ago, by human reckoning," Draal said softly. I nodded, barely taking in the words. All my attention was on the image of Babylon Four, three-quarters built, hanging in space. Two Shadow ships glided toward it, towing a pillar-shaped object with a glowing white heart. A fusion bomb. Then, from the bottom of the screen, laser fire lanced out. The glowing beams, purplish-white, struck the nearest Shadow vessel and broke it apart. Undeterred, its companions kept towing the bomb closer to the station. Again came laser fire, this time as the firing ship soared into view.

The White Star.

My voice was a breath of air. "Impossible…"

"Delenn." Draal's tone combined affection and irritation. "You are seeing it happen, just as the Great Machine saw it. It occurred. And you must make it occur again."

"Stop," I said absently to the Babcom unit, then turned toward him. "What do you mean?"

He frowned, clearly unsettled. "I did not seek this information. The Great Machine brought it to me. It does that sometimes, never without reason. As you and Sheridan command the White Star, I can only surmise that you, or he, or both of you, must set these events in motion." He nodded toward the frozen image of the White Star firing on the fusion bomb. "Soon, I would guess—while the Shadows are still recovering from the blow the Vorlons struck them."

"But… how…?"

He shook his head, still staring at the Babcom screen. "I wish I knew, child. I wish I knew."

My heart began to pound again, and I found myself wishing fiercely that Draal was here as more than a hologram. That he was rattled enough to call me _child_ made me want to hold tight to something, or someone, and never let go.

**ooOoo**

The morning's shocks were not over, as I discovered within the hour when the Anla'shok courier arrived. Rather than Sinclair's report on the White Star fleet, she brought something else. A letter on ancient parchment, well preserved. With my name across the front. Handwritten, but not in Adronado or any Minbari language. In English.

A chill went through me at the sight of it. I had seen enough ancient documents throughout my life to know that the parchment predated by centuries any Minbari contact with humans. Letters of the English alphabet, spelling out my name, had no business being on anything this old. I fought back unease and managed to thank the courier—a young Minbari from Yedor, her scalp tattooed in the style of the Wanderer clans—and take the letter. "Nothing else from Entil'zha?"

She shook her head. "No, honored one. Only that. I was told it is very important."

We shared a cup of tea, after the custom of our people, and she went on her way. For a time after she left, I stared at the letter in silence. It lay on the table, innocuous, waiting.

I breathed in slowly, then picked up the letter and opened it.

_Old __friend_, it said. _I__ write__ this__ near__ the__ end__ of__ my __life, __to __tell __you __of __that__ life__'__s__ beginning.__ You __know__ me __in __one__ aspect__ of__ it,__ as__ Jeffrey__ Sinclair.__ Now__ I__ must __tell__ you __the__ rest.__ How __I__ became__ Minbari __not__ born__ of __Minbari.__ How__ Sinclair__ ceased __to__ be, __and __took __the __face__ and__ name__ of__ Valen. __I__ tell__ you,__ here,__ because __I__ cannot__ do __this__—__could __not__ have__ done__ this__—__without__ your __help.__ Your__ friendship,__ your__ faith,__ your__ courage__ and__ your__ example__ enabled __me __to__ recognize__ and __accept__ my __destiny__—__to__ save __your__ people__ in__ the__ distant__ past,__ so __that__ both__ our __races__ and__ countless __others__ might__ be __saved __in __the __future__…_

The neat, graceful print blurred before my eyes. I sat down, holding the letter in shaking hands. Things I had seen from Sinclair on Minbar—small betrayals of expression and body language—came sharply to mind. The brief, hollow look on his face when I spoke of my youthful daydreams of meeting Valen. The vehemence of his agreement that being a legend was mainly muddling through. He had known, or suspected, even then—but could not tell me.

I could not read any more, though I knew I would have to eventually. The story the letter told was one I had to know, if I were to aid its author. _Its__ author_, I thought, and choked back a sound between a laugh and a sob. I could not name him even in my own mind. Not in this moment. The full truth of who he was—_had __been,__ would__ be_—was too overwhelming to take in.

I rose and strode blindly across the room. Found myself halting at the spot where the Chrysalis had been a full two years before. I reached out, cupped the air. Could almost feel the hard, thin shape of the Triluminary under my fingertips. Remembered it glowing as we held it near Sinclair's unconscious body, aboard the _Valen__'__tha_ at the Battle of the Line…

"Forgive us, dear friend," I whispered. "Forgive _me_."

**ooOoo**

When I finally brought myself to read the rest of the letter, it confirmed what I had feared since viewing Draal's recordings. I had recognized Babylon Four when it reappeared three years ago, though I said nothing about it at the time. As one of the Grey Council, I had access to ancient recordings from the last Shadow War—and unlike many of my colleagues, I had made a point of studying them. They showed the destruction by the Shadows of our principal starbase, vital for long-range operations against the enemy… and its replacement by a structure of alien design, brought by Valen and the two Vorlon guardians who accompanied him. Every Minbari schoolchild knew a version of that story—the Minbari-not-born-of-Minbari who brought us a miracle and saved us from darkness. Where the strange new starbase came from, no one outside the Grey Council ever knew—and even they had no inkling of how. I knew, now… and I also knew what it would cost.

I stood very still in the center of my sitting room, the letter in hand. My chest felt heavy and tight. Sinclair would be here soon; the letter made devastatingly clear how short on time we were. He would come, and we would set in motion events that had already happened, that must happen again or all was lost. And then _he_ would be lost—to me, at least. Garibaldi came to mind then, and Susan, and I amended my thought: _to__ us_.

Seeking comfort, I turned toward the Babcom unit and drew breath to request a connection to John's office—then stopped. What would I tell him? How could I explain? Even with what I had seen, and knew, I could barely wrap my mind around the reality of our task. And Sinclair, his part in it, the thing that made me need comfort most of all… how in the name of all that lived was I to explain _that_?

I needed calm. I went to the quiet corner set aside for meditation, sank onto the cushion, set the letter on the low table next to the candle in its holder. And then I simply sat, hands empty in my lap, not even able to make myself light the wick.

"Lights off," I managed to say. Darkness drew in around me—not soothing, exactly, but apt. I didn't need calm after all, I discovered. I needed to mourn.

**ooOoo**

Lennier found me there, sitting silent in the darkness, something over an hour later. His arrival meant Sinclair was here, and it was time to go. It was hard to make myself get up and leave the room, the candle I had finally lit burning alone in the dark as tribute to the soul of my friend. But there was no choice, so I went.

Sinclair would be in the War Room shortly, Lennier told me as we headed down the corridor. He was taking a little extra time to walk the station, saying farewell in his own way. For a moment I regretted that he had not come to see me, but I thought I understood why. The tasks before him were daunting, especially considering the painful history between our peoples. History that was now in his past, but would become a future he dared not alter. To deal with that knowledge and also with me, without the imperative of our mission to steady him, might shake his resolve. And that he would not risk.

Lennier left me halfway to the War Room, turning off to see to preparations aboard the White Star. I went on and found John and Marcus, perusing maps and discussing how best to exploit the recent lull in Shadow attacks. Sinclair had not yet arrived. The sneaking relief I felt was a thin layer over profound discomfort. This would be the first time I had seen Sinclair since discovering who he was, and I did not know how I would react. As for the others, there was so much to explain, most of which would sound like lunatic fever-dreams. Especially to John, who always wanted reasons and explanations before taking action. I could not give them here and now in any way that made sense, and we had little time in any case. He would simply have to trust me.

All this ran through my mind in the few seconds it took to walk through the doorway. John's face lit up when he saw me, but there was no time for anything personal just now. They needed to come with me to the White Star, I told them. At once. John, Marcus, Ivanova, "and one other." I still could not name him—ridiculous, but I couldn't help it.

"Who?" John asked, just as the door on the upper level swung open. Sinclair stepped through it. My breath caught at the sight of him. His gaze swept over us, lingered on me. I saw compassion in his eyes, and for a moment I wanted to cry like a child. Then the moment passed, and he was coming down the stairs to the main floor where we stood. His gait was easy, his posture relaxed, and he wore the same gentle smile I had last seen on my visit to Minbar a few months ago. "Looks like I got here just in time."

John and Marcus went to greet him, and I took a few seconds to compose myself. Then, as John turned back toward me and asked how I knew Sinclair would be here, a transmission from Garibaldi captured all our attention. He was outside the station in a Starfury, about two hours away from Sector Fourteen, attempting a long-range scan. "The temporal rift is twice as big as it was before," he said, over occasional bursts of static.

John frowned at the vidscreen, which showed a suited-up Garibaldi in the cockpit. "Any idea what's responsible?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's being caused by a powerful tachyon field being transmitted right into the center of the rift. And Captain… it's coming from Epsilon Three."

_Draal_. We were shorter on time than I had thought.

John's scowl deepened. "Why in… Never mind. Keep monitoring it, and keep checking in. And don't get too close."

"No worries, Captain." Garibaldi signed off. Behind John, I saw Sinclair's eyes close briefly and his shoulders sag. In relief, or sadness, or both. I noted he had said nothing to Garibaldi, and had kept well out of view of the vidscreen.

_No__ time__ for __the __personal_. I felt a pang of sympathy for him, and took refuge in the need to get moving. "We must go to the White Star. Commander Ivanova can meet us at the shuttle bay."

"Does this have something to do with the tachyon field?" John said.

"Yes. I will explain when we get there."

"But—" He came toward me, the pent-up energy of a hundred questions in his stride. "Delenn, if the temporal rift is being affected by transmissions coming from the planet below us… isn't that where we should be going, instead of hooking up with the White Star?"

He was thinking of the Great Machine, likely believing some malfunction was responsible. Or, if not, that Draal could explain the tachyon phenomenon. That was like him, to assume something relatively logical. How little he dreamed of the illogic awaiting us. "It will take too much time. We must leave for Sector Fourteen. Now."

He was looking exasperated and trying not to—a look I knew well from other occasions when he wanted answers he could not yet have. "Why? Why right now?"

I was beginning to feel exasperated myself. Much as I had come to admire humans, just now Minbari obedience would have been infinitely preferable. "Because this is the time we are supposed to leave."

"That's circular reasoning—"

"Once we arrive at the White Star, I will explain everything." No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I regretted the impatience that drove them. I moved toward him, speaking more gently. "John… I have rarely asked for anything. Now I am asking." I let my eyes say the rest: _Trust __me_.

He read my unspoken message and slowly nodded. A quick call to Ivanova on his link, telling her to meet us in Shuttle Bay Two, and we were finally on our way.

John's puzzlement was a near-tangible thing, so clear in his face that I could not bring myself to walk next to him as I normally would have done. The proof I needed of the incredible truth was aboard the White Star now; I would tell him, and the others, everything then.

As we moved down the corridor, Sinclair fell into step beside me. "Strange, isn't it?" he said with a wry smile.

I matched his lightness, though I was far from feeling it. "What is?"

"Walking around with a legend. Or at least a fellow who's going to be one."

Put that way, I saw the oddity of it. It was almost funny, in a bizarre way. I couldn't help smiling, then abruptly felt tears pricking and blinked them back. From the corner of my eye I could see his face, wise and kind and all too knowing.

My stammered apology took me by surprise. "I am so sorry. For everything. If we had known—"

His fingers brushed my arm. "The past is past, Delenn. What matters now is securing the future."

**ooOoo**

"So what's this all about?" Susan said as she piloted our shuttle out of the bay. Sinclair, Marcus and John were in the second shuttle, following. "Are we taking on the bad guys again?"

"You could say that." I kept my gaze on the passing stars as we drew near the jump gate. I did not want to speak of what we had to do—specifically, of what Sinclair had to do. Of all the things about this impossible escapade, that was the most impossible of all.

"Quite a surprise, Jeff coming back," she said. I stole a glance at her; she was smiling, happy at the prospect of spending time with her old friend and commander even under mysterious circumstances. "After he went to Minbar as ambassador, I sometimes wondered if we'd ever see him again. Of course, now I know he was busy beefing up the Rangers…"

She trailed off. I was staring back out at the stars, and it took me some seconds to realize she had stopped speaking. In my mind, I was still hearing her say, _I__ wondered__ if__ we__'__d__ ever__ see__ him__ again._ Words so casually spoken, yet they struck so close to home.

She turned quieter, more serious. "What's going on, Delenn? I can tell you don't want to talk about it, and you look more nerved-up than a rookie pilot in her first combat drill. When you get nervous enough to show it, I worry."

Sometimes, she could be too perceptive. "I would rather not say yet," I told her. "Some of what you will need to see is aboard the White Star; I would rather wait until we get there, and brief everyone at once."

"Fair enough." She activated the jump sequence, and the gate flared to life around us. We made the brief trip through hyperspace in silence. Then, as the gate disgorged us a little way from the White Star: "So we're saving the universe again, huh? With maybe a little jaunt to Sector Fourteen?"

I stared at her. She grinned. "Repeat after me. Ivanova knows everything. If Ivanova doesn't know about it, it isn't happening. Ivanova is God." Then she sobered. "Actually, I have inside information. Several hours ago, C&C picked up a transmission coming from Sector Fourteen. It was me. In a Babylon Five that was under siege and coming apart. A mayday call—I was panicked, practically screaming. C&C'd been shot to hell—girders down, wires sparking, fires and smoke. Dead bodies everywhere." She shuddered. "'They're breaking through, they're killing us.' I kept saying that. Didn't say who _they_ were, but I'm assuming the Shadows. They blew us to kingdom come." She turned the shuttle slightly, aiming to dock with the White Star. When she spoke again, I heard anxiety beneath her deliberately casual tone. "So I'm hoping that wasn't the future—or if it was, that it's a future we can change. I'm guessing this little trip has something to do with it?"

"Yes." I could manage no more than that word. The vision she had conjured up was chilling—and all too certain to become reality if we failed in our mission. _We__ won__'__t__ fail_, I told myself. _We__ have __done__ this __once__ already.__ We__ need__ only__ do__ it __again_…

The White Star loomed in the shuttle viewport. Susan tossed a glance my way as she maneuvered closer. "Piece of cake," she said, with a deadpan expression and a gleam in her eyes.

For no good reason, the weight in my chest lightened. I felt myself smiling as I caught her gaze. "Susan Ivanova… have I ever told you how honored and proud I am to call you my friend?"

"Likewise," she said softly. The shuttle docked and she continued, in a more conversational tone: "Garibaldi's going to be royally ticked off. The cloak-and-dagger escapade to end all cloak-and-dagger escapades, and he's missing it. We're going to have some 'splaining to do when we get back, Lucy."

The reference made me laugh in spite of myself, conjuring as it did the memory of a "girls' night" some months back, when Susan showed me how to curl my hair and we sat up afterward watching episodes of old Earth video shows. I hadn't understood most of the humor in them, but the companionship was priceless. How much I had come to value her, and all of them… and how little I would have expected any of this, even just a few years ago.

"We are coming back, aren't we?" Susan said as she powered down the shuttle's engines.

I laid a hand on hers. "Yes." Sheer bravado, but I found myself believing it. We would come back, all of us, if I had anything to say about it.

All of us but one.


	30. Chapter 30

**Author****'****s**** Note:** This chapter covers the rest of "War Without End, Part 1". As usual, some dialogue is quoted from that episode; gapfiller scenes, etc. are my own.

**Part 31—Found and Lost**

We disembarked, and I asked Susan to wait in the landing bay for the others while I went ahead to the briefing room. All was in readiness; Lennier had made sure of that. I spared a thought for him, quietly tending to business on the bridge. I felt glad, suddenly, that he was with us on this journey. Susan's question would not leave my mind. Would we come back? Would I see Stephen or Lyta again, or anyone else we had left behind? I found myself wringing my hands because I had nothing else to hold onto. It would be hard enough leaving Sinclair to go on his lonely journey. Only success in our mission could make that loss worth the price.

The briefing-room door opened and the others came in, John in the lead. He looked like a gokk with an ingrown nail, and came straight up to me with an expression that said the time for waiting was over. "All right, we're all here. Would you mind explaining what it is we're supposed to be doing?"

_Already__ I__ have __some__ '__splaining __to __do_, was the irreverent thought that crossed my mind. Our situation was deadly serious, but the flash of internal humor settled my anxiety. Suddenly, I knew exactly how to begin. "Do you trust me, John?"

He gave me a quizzical look. "What kind of question is that?"

"It's the most important question I have ever asked. Do you trust me?"

He saw I meant it, and replied in kind. "With my life. Why?"

The simple honesty of his answer reminded me why I loved him. I asked them all to sit in a nearby row of chairs, then began. The story took some time, and even with the ancient recordings from the Grey Council archives, John and Susan and Marcus took some convincing. Sinclair was the exception. He listened quietly, absorbing without comment the others' astonishment at Babylon Four's appearance in Minbari space in the distant past. I couldn't look at him, knowing what his silence meant. Instead, I focused on the briefing. And on John, who increasingly looked as if a blunt object had struck him on the head.

"Wait a minute," he said. "You're telling us the Minbari stole Babylon Four?"

_Well,__ one__ Minbari,__ anyway__…_ "Not quite." I called up the first of Draal's records from the Great Machine. We were drawing closer to the part of the tale that even I had trouble accepting, despite irrefutable evidence right before my eyes. Now I had to convince the others, and time was growing shorter with every minute. "The Great Machine has been on Epsilon Three for more than five hundred years, and it has recorded nearly everything nearby. Three years ago, it recorded this."

They watched without speaking as the reappearance and evacuation of Babylon Four unfolded on the wide screen. Sinclair, looking thoughtful, broke his silence and commented on how close a call the evacuation had been; he and Garibaldi almost hadn't made it off the station before it disappeared again. "We never did find out who was behind it," he said.

"That is about to change." Dry-mouthed, I called up the second recording from six years ago and talked them through it: the Shadow ships, the bomb, the plot to destroy Babylon Four so it could not go back in time a thousand years to save the Minbari from disaster. And then I let the recording speak for itself.

The sight of the ship that had saved Babylon Four brought John out of his chair. "The White Star?"

Marcus was barely a breath behind him. "Delenn, are you saying _we_ stole Babylon Four?"

_And__ Susan__ makes__ three_… "But that was years ago!" Susan said, as if on cue. Again, of them all, only Sinclair said nothing. His sober gaze was fixed on the recording.

"Yes," I told them, in answer to all their questions. "And that is exactly where we must go. At this moment, the Great Machine is using all its power to enlarge the temporal rift in Sector Fourteen. We will use it to go back six years into the past. Once there, we must prevent the destruction of Babylon Four and take the station with us through time." I glanced at Susan as I delivered the final bombshell. "Because if we fail to save Babylon Four, Babylon Five will also be destroyed."

They all took a moment to absorb that, with varying degrees of success. Marcus' gaze turned inward, as if he were meditating on the spot; Susan stared at the image of the White Star, frowning slightly as she worked it out. John was having the most difficulty. He looked annoyed again, as if the Universe had picked him up and dropped him into impossibility just to play games with his psyche. For a man of exceptional intelligence and imagination, he could at times be stubbornly dense—usually when confronted with something that violated his sense of reality. "The question of who stole Babylon Four is the greatest mystery of the past decade. Now you're telling me it was… me? _Is_ me? Is _going_ to be me? You can't be serious."

I thought briefly of explaining what I knew of temporal physics—we had studied in temple what little of it my people had pieced together—but decided against it. A lecture on an abstruse branch of an unfamiliar, nonhuman science was not what John needed now. He simply needed reassurance that the apparently impossible was not. "John… with Babylon Four, we will be able to save my people and yours." I glossed over what that would mean in terms of the past fifteen-odd years and went on. "It is history. It has already been done. All we have to do now is make sure that we do it then."

He shook his head, like a water-bird shaking out its feathers. "How long have you known about this?"

There was part of the problem, I realized. He had grown accustomed to openness between us; the thought that I might have kept such a monumental secret until this moment troubled him. "Not long. Until I came to Babylon Five, none of us knew where the station had come from. We knew only that it had helped us win the war. Once I knew the truth, I was afraid to say anything… in case I might accidentally change the future."

Marcus spoke up. "Delenn, I still don't understand how taking Babylon Four will prevent the destruction of Babylon Five."

A fair question, and simpler than most to answer. "When we defeated the Shadows, we destroyed most of their fleet of ships. That's why they are moving slowly. It's taking them time to rebuild their ships. Without Babylon Four, the Shadows would not have been defeated and driven from Z'ha'dum. Instead, they would have dug in and waited, with three times the amount of ships they would have had otherwise."

John still looked skeptical. Sinclair must have caught it as he turned toward us. "She's telling the truth, Captain. If we don't go along with this, we'll change history. And the Shadows will come out of the last war stronger than they should be. We won't stand a chance against odds like that."

"Would you like to tell me what you base that on?"

Sinclair caught my eye briefly, with a slight smile that held too much knowledge. "Let's just say that my information comes from a very reliable source."

"So you believe this?"

"I believe it."

Hesitantly, Marcus spoke. "If Entil'zha believes it… I believe it."

"I'll be in the car," Susan said. I could tell from her deadpan look that she meant it as a joke; I didn't understand it, but the tension in the air lightened somewhat.

I pressed the advantage she had given me. We could not do this without John—and in order to do his best, he needed to accept the truth, no matter how improbable it sounded. "John, we are less than two hours from Sector Fourteen. If we do not proceed, a possible future will become the true future. In that future, the Shadows have most of their fleet intact. And in their next major attack, Babylon Five is destroyed."

If Susan had gokk's ears, she would have pricked them up. "So that's what C&C picked up? Me in this alternate future, calling for help?"

A touch less skeptical now, John spoke into his link. "Sheridan to C&C. Patch me through to Garibaldi."

Garibaldi's reply confirmed what I had said, as I knew it would. He was just outside the rift, recording everything he could. He had seen Babylon Five destroyed four times, he told us, each time the same. "Eight days from now, we go straight to hell. Unless you've found some way to stop it."

"Stand by," John told him, then looked at me. I didn't need words, just the truth in my face. _Trust__ me._

The air felt taut with the weight of decision. Then Sinclair spoke, with a studied lightness that underscored the gravity of the choice we faced. "I've come a long way to be here for this. I'd hate to just turn around and go back again. Besides, I think we'd work well together. Like… Butch and Sundance. Lewis and Clark." He paused, and I saw a mischievous glint in his eye. "Lucy and Ethel."

John stared at him. In spite of himself, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He must have seen those old Earth video shows, too. Then he shrugged. "Well. When I joined Earthforce, the sign said 'Greatest Adventure of All.' If they only knew… All right. Let's do it." I felt pent-up tension wash out of me as he raised an eyebrow at Sinclair and said, "Lucy and Ethel?"

Sinclair merely grinned and turned away.

**ooOoo**

Before long, a shuttlecraft from Epsilon Three came alongside the White Star. We slowed to let it dock; it carried cargo and specialized equipment for our mission. While Marcus and Susan went to join Lennier on the bridge, Sinclair, John and I headed toward the docking bay. I told them what I could of how we were to manage the task ahead, and did my best to tamp down my apprehensions. This would not be easy—and if we failed… _No_. I would not think that. I kept my fears at bay by focusing on technical details: "According to Draal, the time-shifting mechanism needs a clearly defined target. We must place a homing device in the central power core of Babylon Four. Once that's done, we can begin moving it through time."

"Is that Draal on the ship?" Sinclair sounded eager to see my old teacher again.

_Another __farewell__ to__ say_, I thought, then made myself stop. "No. He is busy keeping the

Great Machine under control. It's quite a strain. He said he was sending along one of his aides—"

A guttural yell echoed from somewhere down the cross-corridor, along with the sound of heavy objects hitting the deck. Several cases, large and sturdy as if built to hold tools, slid into view. They were followed by their owner: an extraordinary personage, stocky and thick-necked, encased in animal furs that contrasted oddly with his shock of coarse, reddish hair. He moved in a lopsided shuffle; at each step, a ring of striped tails swung around his broad shoulders. He was trying to pick up the cases, all the while apologizing profusely to the flustered-looking Minbari crewman just behind him. "Sorry. Sorry. Much apologizings. Zathras has great responsibilities. Was thinking great thoughts… did not see you." He continued to apologize as the crewman retrieved the cases with a bemused expression. I went to help, and the strange being—Zathras—appeared to notice us for the first time. His face, craggy and wrinkled with age, brightened in astonishment. "Ah. Ah. There you are." He went up to Sinclair and bobbed his head in a sign of respect. Sinclair kept his face sober, but his eyes glinted with humor.

The crewman, staring after Zathras with frank curiosity, lost his grip on the stack of cases. It took quick action by both of us to keep them from falling again. "Let me help you get these to the bridge," I murmured, taking half the load from him. "Shodenn, isn't it? Of the family Talan? I was privileged to serve with your great-uncle some years ago. It would honor me greatly to know how he is doing…"

As intended, my chatter allowed Shodenn to recover from his embarrassment at nearly dropping the equipment. He permitted me to help him carry the cases a few yards down the corridor before insisting that he could manage the rest of the way. I left him with his load and a polite bow, and went back to Sinclair and John. And Zathras, Draal's… unusual… assistant.

After a moment or two of confusion, we continued toward the bridge, Zathras in the lead. John and Sinclair dropped back a bit, talking softly together and then falling silent. Before long, John came up beside me. Nodding toward Zathras, he murmured, "What do you make of him?"

I had wondered about Zathras myself. Yet not until John asked, with a hint of worry he was trying to conceal, did reassurance come. "Draal finds wisdom in unlikely places. We are in good hands."

"You're sure?"

I glanced sideways at him. "Abso-fragging-lutely."

He laughed at that and briefly squeezed my hand.

Susan and Marcus had taken up their usual stations on the bridge: she at the weapons console, he by one of the systems arrays. Zathras went immediately to the cases, which had been placed in a corner out of the way. He opened one, frowned, muttered something indistinct and set it aside. The next one met with his approval, and he began taking things out of it.

I moved to the forward sensor bank and eyed the readout. We were too far out from Sector Fourteen for the tachyon field to affect us yet, though we would reach it soon. Behind me, John spoke to Marcus: "Patch me through to Garibaldi's Starfury." I thought of Susan's quip, that Garibaldi would be annoyed to miss our "escapade," and wondered if John meant to bring him along. Instead, John sent him back to the station. Garibaldi protested, but John held firm; he would not risk the entire command staff on a trip to Sector Fourteen. Reluctantly, Garibaldi obeyed.

I caught Susan's expression as the Starfury turned away—she was frowning slightly, glancing between John and Sinclair as if unclear on what had just happened. Then John spoke to Sinclair, and I realized what lay behind her look. "All right. I did as you asked. I sent him home and didn't tell him you were here. Why the secrecy? Didn't you want to talk to him?"

Sinclair stayed silent a moment. "More than you'll ever know," he said softly, finally. The sadness in his face as he turned away made my throat hurt. I took a step toward him, with the half-formed thought of offering comfort. But there was none. He was going away a thousand years into the past, and he could not even bid farewell to his dearest friend. He knew Garibaldi too well, knew he would follow Sinclair into any danger for even the smallest chance of helping him. And for what Sinclair must do, Garibaldi could be no help at all.

Before long, we reached the outer edge of the tachyon rift. The White Star halted and held station while Zathras gave each of us a time stabilizer—a round silver disk the size of my palm, meant to be fastened on our clothing. "When we travel in time, we pass through great waves of tachyon impulses. You can become unstuck in time. Unless there is anchor. These will keep you from drifting. Also protect you." He shook his shaggy head. "Time distortion can do terrible harm."

Susan nodded. "I know. The last time Babylon Four appeared… the pilot we sent out to investigate? Died of old age." She glanced at Sinclair. "I guess you got lucky."

"Well, this is it." John sounded sober, but with an underlying eager note he couldn't disguise. He took his place in the command chair. "Mr. Lennier, move us into the rift."

I went to stand beside him, heart in my throat, as the White Star surged forward. Waves of tachyon energy buffeted the ship, and for several minutes it was all we could do to stay upright. I gripped the arm of the command chair for balance and felt John's eyes on me. Our gazes met and he took my hand. That silent reassurance gave me new resolve. We would survive this and succeed. There was no telling what our future held, but we would have one. All of us—and John and I, together. I wanted that so fiercely that the force of it stole my breath.

Then we were through the rift, sailing once more amid the tranquil stars. John let go of my hand. I watched the role of captain settle over him, like a dusting of snow on a redbark tree. "All right. Scanners at maximum." He got up and walked toward the forward sensors, me a scant step behind him. "If those Shadow fighters really are here somewhere, we have to find them."

"I've got something," Lennier said from the rear sensor bank.

"Show me," John said.

Lennier's fingers danced over his console, sending data to the forward array. A hologram appeared in the air above the console: Babylon Four. With several small Shadow ships arrowing toward it, towing the fusion bomb. They were still some distance from their target and the innocent people aboard her—but they drew closer with every passing second.

The White Star moved to intercept. Three Shadow fighters broke off and headed toward us. At John's order, Susan fired the forward guns. A blaze of laser fire caught one Shadow fighter; a second managed to retaliate, and the White Star bucked under the impact. Damage, luckily, was minimal. We pressed onward. After another minute or two, Susan began to look worried. "Captain, if that thing gets any closer to Babylon Four, we risk damaging the station when it blows."

John frowned. "Can you hit it from here on manual?"

"I can try."

"Do so." He strode forward, past the helm, until he was standing next to the front viewports. He peered out of them as Susan fired. She struck another fighter, but missed the bomb itself, and swore under her breath in what sounded like Russian.

"Babylon Four now within estimated blast range," Marcus said, with a calm that belied the tension in his shoulders. "But then, so are we."

"In that case, hang onto your socks." Susan fired again. This time, her shot struck the fusion bomb dead center.

A blaze of white light blotted out everything; the deck shuddered beneath my feet. "Lennier, get us out of here!" John shouted. But it was too late. The edge of the shockwave caught us as we turned; swirling, volatile energies filled the bridge. A glowing tendril coalesced around John and struck his time stabilizer. He stiffened and cried out in pain.

Without conscious thought I ran toward him, calling his name. I heard a shout—"No!"—and something checked me. Marcus, both arms around my waist. The terrible light flared brighter and vanished, taking John with it.

The fragments of his stabilizer fell to the deck with a sound like breaking glass.

**ooOoo**

I did not, later, remember moving. I simply found myself standing near the forward viewports, with Susan and Sinclair and Marcus, all of us watching Zathras fiddle with the stabilizer pieces as if he could make them whole and conjure John out of them. "Time stabilizer damaged," he said, sounding mournful. "He is unstuck in time. Zathras warn, but… no one listen to Zathras."

Shock had robbed me of speech. _Unstuck__ in __time_... John was alive, then? He must be. I would know if he was dead. I would feel it. I clung to that thought until the next brought fresh fear. Alive, but in what condition? Injured… or dying of accelerated old age?

"What do you mean, unstuck in time?" Marcus, agitated. "Where is he—in the past? In the future?"

Zathras shrugged. "Cannot say… Saying, would know. Do not know, so cannot say." He shook his head sadly at the broken stabilizer. "Very damaged. Zathras cannot ever have anything nice…"

The sound of my own voice surprised me. "We must find him…"

"Later." Sinclair looked grimmer than I had ever seen him. "Babylon Four—"

"—Can wait!" Susan, fierce and determined. _Yes_, I thought, and then, confusedly, _no__…_

"No, it can't." Sinclair echoed the word in my mind. He went on, saying what I knew was true, though I did not wish to hear it. "Sheridan knew the risks, same as we did. All of us are expendable. What counts is the mission. He'd want us to continue. We may be able to pull him back, but first we have to get to Babylon Four. The explosion sent out enough EMP to blow out their scanners for awhile. We have one chance to get onboard. If we wait too long, we'll lose it."

Susan looked mutinous. He softened his voice as he closed the distance between them. "Susan—if we don't follow through, then Sheridan went through all this for nothing. Putting the future back on track may be our only chance to save him."

I did not see how that could be true. How were we to find John, let alone anchor him back in his proper time and heal any harm he had taken? But Sinclair was right about one thing. John would not have wanted to risk himself in vain. If our mission failed because we tried to rescue him, there would be no point in doing so. He would have no future worth living in to come back to.

The fight went out of Susan; she nodded once, barely. Sinclair asked for a status report, which Marcus gave in a subdued voice. We had power, and we could maneuver.

"Good" Sinclair looked at us all—including me, for the first time since John's disappearance. "We came here to do a job, and by God, one way or another we're going to finish it."

I returned to the forward sensor array. Every step was an effort. First, the mission. Then, John. _He__ will__ come__ back_, I told myself, as the readout swam before my eyes. _We__ will__ find __him_. _Faith __manages.__ The__ Universe__ knows__ what__ it__'__s__ doing_.

Words of comfort, familiar since childhood. But I couldn't quite make myself believe them.

**ooOoo**

The sensors said what I expected—there were no threats, no more Shadow ships. Only Babylon Four, blissfully unaware of our approach. I drifted toward the front of the bridge, leaned against the nearest surface, stared through the viewports. Stars drifted by, but I scarcely saw them. Soft conversations and purposeful activity made a quiet hum behind me. I wanted something to do, something to keep me from thinking—and I also wanted to stay still and stare into the void, as if staring long enough would make John reappear.

A step close by made me turn. Sinclair was there, concern in his eyes. I spoke before he could. "This was not part of the plan. I did not expect this. We cannot even know when in time Sheridan has gone."

"He'll be all right." He sounded as if he believed it. He continued in Adronado, as if to be certain I could not mistake his meaning. "I know what's coming."

I stared at him. He knew… what? That he must go back in time, change himself? But I knew these things already. He had written them in the letter. And he knew that I knew. So what was he telling me? That we would succeed? That John would come back? Both?

"Are you all right?" he asked softly, still in Adronado.

"No." I felt like a coward admitting it. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He went back to English. "All my life, I've had doubts about who I am. Where I belonged. Now, I'm like the arrow that springs from the bow. No hesitation. No doubts. The path is clear." He was smiling, the way a man used to stumbling in the night might smile when at last the sun rises.

I watched him take his place in the command chair. I wished I could share his confidence, but the shadow of loss lay dark over my heart.

**ooOoo**

I had managed a semblance of calm by the time the White Star landed on Babylon Four's hull and began burning an entry hole. When it was finished, Sinclair, Marcus, Susan and I—along with the ever-helpful Zathras—climbed through it into a deserted corridor aboard the station we were to steal. Sinclair went to reconnoiter; the rest of us busied ourselves bringing up equipment and taking steps to block our improvised "base of operations" from discovery. Having something to do helped keep my fears for John at bay. Sinclair was right; there was nothing to be done for the moment except to go on with the mission. Only once we had some breathing space would there be any chance of determining _when_ John might have gone, let alone bringing him back.

Sinclair returned from scouting out our surroundings, and the four of us divided up the tasks ahead. Susan and Marcus went one way, to secure a primary corridor leading to the core reactor system where we must place the homing beacon for moving the station through time. Sinclair and I, meanwhile, would find and secure the core area itself. "I need Lennier to stay with the ship," Sinclair told Zathras. "Can you get the equipment up here by yourself?"

In his eccentric way, he said he could. "Zathras is used to being beast of burden to other people's needs. Very sad life. Probably have very sad death. But at least there is symmetry."

Fear was still with me, like the first breath of winter in the last breezes of autumn. For John, for Susan and Marcus, for Sinclair and myself. For the future, if we failed. Yet I couldn't help feeling faintly amused at Zathras' odd way of expressing himself. I wondered if this was why Draal had sent him—to remind us that even the darkest hour had light in it somewhere, if we knew how to look. I caught Sinclair's eye, and the warmth there reassured me a bit more. _Faith__ manages_, I thought… and this time, managed to believe it. A little.

"Go, go." Zathras shooed us off. "Zathras take care." With a final nod, he climbed back down into the White Star.

Sinclair looked at me. Easy, confident, trusting implicitly that I would, as humans say, have his back. "Ready?"

I could not meet that confidence with doubt. I gave him a wry smile. "Why do your people always ask if someone is 'ready' right before you are going to do something massively unwise?"

He grinned. "Tradition." Then he turned and went down the corridor.

"In Valen's name," I murmured, softly so he would not hear, and followed.


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Note: **This chapter covers part of "War Without End, Part 2". Some dialogue is quoted from that episode; as usual, gapfiller scenes and bits are my own.

The complexity of what happens onscreen in "War Without End" definitely spilled over into figuring out what might have/must have been happening off-screen. I've given it my best shot and made certain assumptions; any continuity errors are mine alone. As always, comments are greatly appreciated.

**Part 32—Dreams of Fear and Hope**

It didn't take long for Sinclair and I to reach the area near the central core. We walked lightly, our feet making no sound on the metal deck. I found myself watching Sinclair's cloak swirl around his boots, mesmerized by the motion even while staying hyper-alert for danger. Focusing on that tiny detail kept me from worrying about John: where he was, _when_ he was, what might be happening to him. Despite my best intentions, my mind kept turning toward nightmare images: John impossibly aged by time distortion, or trapped in some future where the Shadows had him in their grip. Or dead at their hands on Z'ha'dum.

That last thought made me walk faster, as if I could outrun it. I still had not asked him what he had meant when Kosh died, that Kosh would not be with him on the homeworld of the Shadows. He must have intended to go there—but I didn't know how, or when, or why. Deep down, I hadn't wanted to. And now he might be gone from me, lost in time forever, and I would never know—

"Nearly there." Sinclair's voice, a whisper for my ears alone, broke into my thoughts. Up ahead where the corridor turned slightly, I could hear faint voices, along with the muffled crackling of metal being welded. Sinclair and I slowed as we rounded the slight bend. The open doorway to the core chamber lay a few yards ahead of us. We peered in, just long enough to make certain of who and what were inside it. "This will do," Sinclair murmured. "But we'll have to clear the place out first." He raised his link and spoke softly into it, communicating with Susan and Marcus.

New tension jolted through me, half fear and half excitement. Marcus and Susan should be nearly finished with their part by now. Ours would come next, if nothing went horribly wrong in the next few minutes. _Nothing more than what already has_… Sinclair flattened himself against the wall near the entryway. I closed my eyes and breathed deep to steady myself.

Sudden dizziness made me clutch at the wall, though there was no handhold in its smooth metal surface. Images and sensations, rapid and disjointed, flashed through my mind. A dark room with dank walls, scant-lit by the flicker of torches. Burning pain in my ribs, as if I had been struck there. A voice, rough with tears, speaking words I only half-understood until the sound came into focus: _the price, John… the terrible, terrible price_… A trembling body pressed to mine. My arms folding tight around slender shoulders. Then a glimpse of my own face—half in shadow, lined with age and sorrow.

A shudder rippled through me and my eyes flew open. I stood in the corridor of Babylon Four, spine pressed to the cold, hard wall. Sinclair was looking at me, concerned. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure." I still felt disoriented, and struggled to cast it off. What had I seen? Where was it—or when? Was any of it even real? I thought of a human expression I had heard Garibaldi use once, that seemed remarkably apt. "It was the strangest feeling… I think the way you describe it is, as if someone had just walked over my grave." _No one could do that on Minbar_, I thought, illogically—and then the alert klaxon sounded, and there was no more time to think.

Susan and Marcus had done their work well. The crewmen in the area, convinced of an imminent hull breach, rushed out of the core chamber to safety. With the central room and surrounding corridors secured, at least for awhile, we fetched the necessary equipment and got to work. It took several trips to bring everything from the White Star, and I found myself grateful for the sheer physical effort. Lifting, hauling and moving components of the beacon that would shift Babylon Four through time kept fear at bay, at least somewhat. I found I could not watch Zathras, however, as he tinkered with one of the human-style spacesuits we had brought. Sinclair and John had intended to use them to place part of the time-shifting mechanism on the outside of the station; now, facing a lull in his part of our mission, Zathras had propped the empty suit in a corner of our improvised staging area and was fiddling with its power supply. For reasons I could not fathom, he seemed to think John would reappear inside it. Watching him work with the suit made me feel shaky; it was too much a reminder of the peril in which John stood. I knew John himself would have told me our mission mattered far more than he did, but my heart cried out at the thought. I couldn't stay where Zathras was, intent on his temporary rescue measure. Another load of components waited; I hefted them and hurried off, as if there were nothing more important than getting them to their destination as swiftly as possible.

We had compiled enough equipment for me to begin putting things together. The time-shifting mechanism was complex and intricate; building even a small portion of it to Zathras' specifications required concentration and a delicate hand. Too soon, however, I had done what I could and needed to go back. I dreaded seeing the empty spacesuit slumped in its corner. I wouldn't look at it, I told myself. I would fetch what I needed quickly and get back to the job at hand—

Male voices drifted toward me as I neared our staging area. Sinclair and John. _Blessed universe, John_. Here. Alive. Unhurt. The sight of him as I rounded the corner—enveloped in the spacesuit, only his head and hands visible—gave wings to my feet. I flew toward him like an arrow toward its target. The need to touch him was as powerful as the need to breathe. The bulky suit felt like a barrier, keeping me from him. I touched what I could reach of his face, his hair, desperate to know he was truly all right. He was fine, he said, then broke off. In his eyes I saw bewilderment, and the weight of knowledge that had not been there before. _Of what_, I wondered, but there was no time to ask, let alone be answered. I knew it, and so did he.

He stopped me briefly as I stepped away from him, and seemed on the point of speaking, but the words would not come. I thought of the shadowed, torchlit room, the anguished voice—mine, I realized—and my older self looking back at me with sadness in her eyes. Had I been with him then, seeing what he saw? I felt afraid suddenly, and didn't want to know. Yet if John needed to tell me… "What is it?"

He hesitated. "It's a long story. I'll have to tell you later."

My relief at that troubled me. Whatever he had seen, whatever we had experienced, I should face it—not hide from it, like a child frightened by bad dreams. But there was no time. We did not know how long John would remain here before the time-distortion effect pulled him away again, and he and Sinclair had a job to do. With luck, he would stay long enough for Zathras to repair the damaged stabilizer. Without luck…

I refused to dwell on that. John and Sinclair moved off, on their way to place the homing beacon on the central power core. I hurried to join Susan and Marcus, and tried not to listen to Sinclair and John's space-booted footsteps fading down the corridor.

**ooOoo**

Aboard the White Star's bridge, there was nothing to do but wait. Sinclair and John were moving the time-shifting mechanism into place; until one of them reported in, there was nothing to do. And no reassurance that John was still here, still safe.

I prowled the bridge like a mountain cat. Once I caught Lennier watching me, anxiety plain on his face. I managed a smile that I hoped would reassure him—he had enough to do running the ship's systems, without worrying about me—but it wasn't very convincing. "He will be all right," Lennier said quietly as my wanderings drew me near him. "The Universe chose both of you to lead us in this war. It would make no sense for Sheridan to be lost now, with battle so recently joined."

I envied him that clarity even as I blessed him for it. He had yet to learn how tangled the threads of destiny could be, and how unsure our grasp of them. I had barely begun to comprehend that, and my own understanding was as limited as a child's. If I had been wiser, understood more clearly, perhaps later events would have unfolded differently. Or perhaps not. I had already made the error that would shape them, and no power in existence could have kept me from paying the price.

I told Lennier none of this, merely laid a hand on his shoulder and then moved off. Nothing held my attention; the instruments showed nothing of import, and I could not bring myself to look out at the starfield. All I could think of was the two men out there, small and vulnerable in their blue spacesuits against the vastness of the Universe. Doing what they could—what they had already done—to recreate past events that would ensure our future. In that moment, I was not sure which of them I could bear to lose less—Sinclair, who was destined to go, or John, whose destiny had just begun to unfold. _With mine_?

"Just settle somewhere, can't you?" Susan's sharp remark startled me back to reality. "You're making me crazy, and things are crazy enough as it is." I looked at her, unable to muster any response beyond blinking, and she bit her lip. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. It's just…" She trailed off, clenching a fist against the top of the weapons console. "I hate being so goddamned helpless."

She had spoken my heart. I rested my hand over hers; she opened her fist and clasped my fingers, brief and hard. I knew it was John she meant, but I couldn't help thinking of Sinclair as well. When he stayed behind, she would be powerless in the face of that, too. And would hate it every bit as much.

Knowing her feelings mirrored my own steadied me more than anything else could have done. I thanked her with a look, then went to the forward sensor array and planted myself beside it. No more wandering. I would wait with decent patience for whatever came next, and then deal with it. Whatever it was.

John's voice, reporting a short while later from outside the station, brought me relief sharp as pain. They were moving the final piece into place, he said. That meant we were nearly finished. Now, if Zathras could fix John's time stabilizer before he vanished again…

Lights flashed across the forward sensor array: a power surge from Babylon Four. The White Star shuddered as if struck by an earthquake. Susan shouted for Zathras, who shouted back and dove toward the nearest console. After several seconds of his determined efforts, the ship stopped trembling. "Time device acted prematurely," Zathras said, with a grave shake of his shaggy head. "Not good. Malfunction."

"So where are we?" Behind Susan's terse words, I heard what she _didn't_ say—where were Sinclair and John? What had the power surge done to them?

We had moved four years ahead, Zathras told us. Precisely where Babylon Four reappeared, in what for most of us was the recent past. Thus far, everything was happening just as it did before. I should have found that comforting, if only because it confirmed that we had made no grave errors yet—but fear refused to leave me, no matter how hard I wrestled it down. I knew the past already; what I didn't know was the future. What if this little jaunt had left John, or Sinclair—or both—behind? Or killed them? Without Sinclair, there could be no Valen. An impossible thought, no more comprehensible than boulders taking flight or ice catching fire. And without John—

I caught his name and abruptly came back to myself. Susan was hailing John, but no one answered. My breath caught painfully in my throat. One second crawled by, then another, and another…

Sinclair's voice came over the comm, thin and exhausted. "He's gone again. And you'd better get up here. There's been a slight problem."

Susan swore under her breath. No other words were needed. With a nod to Lennier, I joined her and Marcus, and the three of us left the bridge.

**ooOoo**

I was halfway up the ladder into the staging area when the world dissolved around me. Suddenly I was in a wholly different place—a room, mostly dark. I thought of the dark chamber from my earlier vision—but the faint illumination was steady, not the flickering of torchlight, and came from a few light fixtures on the walls. Fixtures I recognized. I was on Babylon Five, in a bedroom. John's bedroom, I realized with a start. He was lying there, in bed, his face calm and peaceful. A checked quilt and silk sheets lay draped partway across his bare chest. I felt a moment's dizziness, as if I saw through two sets of eyes. He looked so young, almost boyish… and something in him shone through his face, even in sleep, that made my heart turn over with yearning…

I was dreaming. Surely I was. I felt my dream-self rise from the chair drawn up by John's bedside (_when had I sat there_?) and amble toward the half-open bedroom doors, with a last fond look over my shoulder at my sleeping beloved. The watching ritual. I was watching John sleep. For the second time, if I counted the long night aboard the White Star so many weeks ago.

The outer room was dimly lit as well, set for the depths of night aboard station. A faint glow from a sconce in the kitchenette drew my gaze to something on the counter. A large glass ball on a polished wooden base, with a small sculpture of a lighthouse inside it. A snow globe. John had showed it to me once, recounted with affection how his parents had bought it for him on a long-ago trip to the seaside region of Cape Cod. It had made me think then of my own journey to the shores of the Inland Sea, as a small child with my father so many cycles past. I reached out for the snow-globe, felt its weight and smoothness in my hands. The sleeves of the garment I wore looked strange, I noted idly. Not my usual robes. A thicker fabric, dark blue, with a nubbly texture much like the towels used to dry off from a water shower. Some garment of John's? The intimacy of that thought made my skin grow warm. My dream-self turned the snow-globe upside down, then upright again. I felt deep contentment as I watched the tiny snowflakes tumble through the water that filled the glass ball. To be here, like this, watching the miniature snowfall and hearing John's soft breathing from the next room, was joy enough to make my soul sing…

The sound of the door made me turn. A woman stood there, half in shadow. I recognized her. My mouth went dry. The snow globe dropped from my suddenly nerveless hands. The single word she spoke—"Hello"—rang through the echo of shattering glass.

"Delenn?" Someone grabbed my shoulder roughly. The sitting room, with the woman's voice and the breaking glass, vanished. I found myself back on the ladder, partway through the hole the White Star had burned into the deck of Babylon Four. Marcus was holding my arm. I was trembling, and the anxiety in his eyes told me I must look shaken. "Are you all right?"

I gathered my scattered wits as he helped me the rest of the way into the staging area. Behind him, Susan looked equally worried. I managed to say yes, to reassure them, then looked around for Zathras. I felt badly in need of reassurance myself, and hoped he could provide it. "What was that?"

"Time flash," he said. "You see yourself backward or forward in time. Zathras told you, system unstable." He peered at me and then, apparently satisfied I had suffered no harm, moved off.

I took a deep breath, then another, schooling myself to calm. Backward or forward, he had said. Whatever this vision had been, it was nothing from my past. I must have seen forward, then…

A sudden, wild hope seized me. I forgot the broken snow globe, forgot that final moment of shock at knowing _she_ was there. I remembered only John, safely asleep in his own bed… and myself, watching him in the ancient Minbari ritual. Late at night, private and intimate, as was right for those becoming lovers. If this lay in our future, then John would survive. And Sinclair as well, to go back and become Valen, and make the past what it should be—

"Jeff!" Susan, sounding shocked and dismayed. "What happened?"

I looked up and felt shock of my own at the sight of Sinclair walking up to us. He had aged visibly, most likely from contact with the tachyon field. Thank the Universe he was alive, and not so old as to be at death's door—but it was worrisome, to see him like that. He gave us what reassurance he could that the effect on him was minimal, but it wasn't enough to satisfy Susan. "Are you going to keep aging like that, the closer we get to our own time?"

Zathras answered her, but I paid no heed to what he said. I was watching Sinclair, who kept silent and looked down. Compassion for him pierced my heart. He could not tell her the truth—not yet—and could not bring himself to lie to her, even obliquely. "We can't think about this right now," he said finally. "We have a job to finish." Then, with a swift glance at me before turning to Zathras: "Sheridan disappeared again just as the field went up. If we don't get him back soon, we may lose him permanently. Is there any way you can fix his time stabilizer?"

Zathras thought he could, with the right equipment. Which we did not have. And even if we did, it was—as he said—delicate, careful work. Fear gnawed at me again, and I conjured up my timeflash-vision of John safe asleep aboard Babylon Five. It _would_ happen. We would make it so. _Faith manages. I must have faith_.

Susan was speaking of a work area deeper inside the station where they might have what Zathras needed. Sinclair nodded and told them to get going. As they moved off, he turned to me and Marcus. "I'm going back to the power core to see if I can stabilize this thing. We only have one shot at this, so let's make the most of it. The two of you get back to the White Star and monitor things; let me know when it's ready."

"Right," Marcus said with a nod, and climbed down through the hole.

I could not summon the will to speak. I held Sinclair's gaze for a long moment, one hand pressed to my heart. Then I turned away to follow Marcus.

**ooOoo**

On the bridge of the White Star, the minutes dragged. A proximity alert, sounding roughly a quarter-hour after Marcus and I returned, showed no threat—only the small fleet of rescue ships sent to evacuate Babylon Four during the drama of its brief reappearance. Then nothing again. The silence grated on me, as did my relative inactivity. It didn't take more than one person to monitor the readings as Sinclair had asked, or to keep an eye on surrounding space in case of surprises. Marcus and the crew were doing a fine job on their own. The task did not require me. Why, then, had Sinclair sent me back here? Was my distress about John so overt that he believed it a dangerous distraction? Did he no longer trust my self-control?

A shaming thought, that—all the more because I could not say for certain it was not true. I _was_ afraid, deeply so. And twice now, I had fallen prey without warning to dream-states where John was present. Surely, if anything proved Sinclair right, it was that. Zathras had called the second incident a timeflash, but it made me uneasy to have been affected by it. My time stabilizer was undamaged, like everyone else's except John's—why, then, had the timeflash happened to me, but no one else? As for the first dream-state… but I did not want to think about that. The anguish in the face of my older self hinted at things to come that I would rather not know.

So I sat in the command chair, staring at nothing, trying not to think of John, or my visions. Or of anything at all, since there was nothing hopeful to think of. Then Susan reported in, hurried and whispering. Zathras had been captured, and Susan herself had barely escaped notice. I knew I should feel grateful for that—had she been taken, we would truly be in what humans called "hot water"—but the news only made me that much more frantic at being stuck here useless on the White Star.

I couldn't stand it any longer. As Susan signed off and Marcus returned to his monitoring, his face a shade graver than before, I left the bridge. I would find Susan and help her rescue Zathras. And then we would work out what to do next.

_Don't be foolish_, a small voice in my mind whispered. _You will be seen, or caught, and then there will _really_ be trouble_. I ignored the voice. I had to move, act, _do_ something before I went staring mad. So I left, heading for Babylon Four.

The staging area was empty—at first. Then something flickered in the corner where a bench met the wall. The ghostly outline of a figure in a blue spacesuit took shape. It solidified, then faded, then slowly solidified again. This time, it stayed. Slumped on the bench, unmoving. I couldn't see through the bulky suit whether the figure was breathing.

_John_. My heart recognized him before my mind caught up. I hurried toward him. With shaking hands, I unfastened the helmet and eased it off.

Relief swept through me at the sight of him, unconscious but alive—and not apparently aged, as Sinclair had been. _Of course_, I thought as I set the helmet down and gently brushed his hair from his pale brow. _He was only exposed to the tachyon field once, not twice. That would account for it._

My fingers found his cheek and lingered there. He did not stir at my touch, and I was not sure whether to be worried or grateful. I knew what I had to do, had known it since the moment I saw him appear. Zathras was a captive, the broken time stabilizer left who knew where. There was only one chance to save John now. I wanted so much to look into his eyes, hear him speak and know he had taken no harm… but if he were conscious, he would try to stop me. And I would not be stopped.

As swiftly as I dared, I eased him out of the suit. Then I removed my own time stabilizer and fastened it to his uniform.

Terror swept me as my hands fell away from the gleaming silver circle. Now I would be lost in time, adrift with no control over where—or when—I went. For how long? Minutes, hours, days? _Years_? What if I were lost forever… drawn so far into the future or past that I never found my way back? Or marooned somewhen for so long that I died there, with no hope of rebirth in any lifetime with John in it? Never to see him again… or Sinclair, Susan, Marcus, Lennier, anyone?

I felt dizzy, and for a wild moment feared the chaos of time already had me in its grip. Common sense told me it was because I was breathing too fast and too shallowly. Years of temple discipline came to my aid; I slowed my breathing by an act of will, forced my heart to stop throwing itself like a maddened bird against my ribcage. With something like calm restored, I moved a little away from John and looked the suit up and down. It had taken no apparent harm; it would safeguard me well enough, should the time current abruptly deposit me in the depths of space, or anywhere else lacking a breathable atmosphere.

_No time to waste_. I would simply have to trust that the Universe _did_ know what it was doing, and would somehow bring me back to all those I loved. Especially to him I loved most.

John was still insensible, slumped against the bulkhead. I stroked his hair, then traced his jawline. He murmured, but did not wake. Part of me still wished he would; I had so much to say to him, and I might never get another chance.

There was one more thing I might never get another chance at. My breath coming fast again, this time from more than fear, I leaned forward and gently kissed him on the lips. "Farewell for now, _v'mai_," I whispered. _My heart_. "I will come back." For a moment, as I spoke the words, I almost believed them.

The suit was awkard and somewhat too large. I had scarcely fastened the helmet securely into place when a wave of dizziness struck me. I staggered and dropped to one knee. Something _wrenched_ at me with the force of a blizzard wind, and the gray metal walls of Babylon Four went away.


	32. Chapter 32

**Author's Note: **This chapter covers the rest of "War Without End, Part 2". A few lines of dialogue are quoted from that episode; gapfiller scenes are my own.

I have always wondered where Delenn went after she switched places with Sheridan; this is my answer. Hope you enjoy. J

**Part 33—What the Heart Does**

_ Blue-white light. A sense of drifting, as if buffeted by small waves. No sense of time, and yet too much time. _All of time_, comes the hazy thought. I could almost laugh at that idea, if I felt real enough to do it. It occurs to me that I should be afraid, but perhaps emotions cannot exist where there is so little awareness of self. Where am I? _When_ am I? _Who_ am I…_

I am Delenn._ The thought takes effort, like pushing through deep snow. I hold onto it, hard and tight. As I think this, I can feel my fingers. Vaguely, as if they are not quite there. They come into sharper focus and I feel smoothness under them, with a few rough spots. I recognize the texture. The sturdy lowest branch of the redbark tree I used to swing myself up on as a child. As long as I can cling to that, I will not wholly lose myself._

_ The blue-white fog blurs, shifts. New colors bleed through it: gold and dusty red, with hints of green. The colors brighten, form an outline. I see a mountainside. A mountainside I know._

_ I am home. A place I have not been for years, cannot possibly be now. Yet I am here, high up on the mountain, with the heady scent of hala bushes all around me. From the size of the golden blossoms, it is the end of summer. Soon will come the Nine Days, warm and bright while the sun shines but frost-touched after nightfall. Then the wind shift that brings winter storms. Have I come to my future, or my past?_

_ Below me, near the base of the slope, stands a house of grey stone and red-gold timber. My house when I was a child. As if my thought has evoked her, a door opens and a small girl comes out. She cannot be more than four cycles old. Her tunic and trousers are deep blue—the color of faith—and she is barefoot. She closes the door behind her and walks quickly down the path, every step filled with purpose. As I watch, my heart rises into my throat. I know when I am now, and what will happen this day. And I cannot prevent it. Nor could I then, a little child determined to change what could not be changed. To keep the only life she knew by the sheer force of her desire._

_ Child-Delenn continues down the path. It will take her up a small rise, then down the other side toward the flyer landing pad some distance off. A long walk for her short legs, but she does not care. She cares only about the end of her journey and the final appeal she must make that she is sure will change everything. _

_She is hurrying now, toward the top of the rise. Up on my slope, I can scarcely breathe. I am solid enough, real enough, to go after my child-self, or at least call out—but what will happen if I do? What will change, that cannot be changed for the sake of the present I came from? I cannot call out. I cannot intervene. I can only bear witness. _

_Child-Delenn has gone over the rise and out of my sight, but I can feel her presence. She draws me, as if an unbreakable thread joins our two hearts. I let myself be drawn, and the landscape around me changes. I am elsewhere on the mountainside now, closer to the distant landing pad. I can see the cluster of buildings that surrounds it, and child-Delenn still moving toward it._

_ A low hum fills the air. The flyer's engines are waking. Child-Delenn begins to run. My eyes grow hot and my throat burns. It is too far. She will never reach it in time._

_ The hum deepens in pitch. Child-Delenn runs faster. She knows what the sound means, is beginning to realize she is out of time. A loose stone rolls under her foot. She falls hard, scraping her hands on the rough ground. She struggles upright, her clothes smutched with dust, and keeps running. _

_ There is movement near one of the buildings by the landing pad. Three people come out—two in crimson, one in stark white. They walk toward the waiting flyer. A ramp lowers, and the distant figures climb it. The one in white hesitates at the base of the ramp, then slowly steps onto it. A cry escapes child-Delenn, wordless and full of anguish. Then another, this time with words, as the white-robed figure disappears inside the flyer. My own lips echo them in a ragged whisper: _"Oma'mai! Amach'ni!" Mother, don't go…!

_ A moment's disorientation, and then I am seeing through child-Delenn's eyes. Feeling what she feels, running as she runs. A stitch in my side, eyes streaming, nagging pain in my foot where the stone bruised it. My throat raw with screaming for my mother, who is going away. _

_ I slip and fall again. Struggle up again as the flyer lifts off with a thundering roar. I hurl myself forward, reaching out and up with my small hands as if to pluck it from the sky. _"Oma'mai, amach'ni! Oma'mai …!"

_ Strong arms catch me and hold me still. For a dizzying moment I am two people, in two timelines. Who restrains me? Marcus, keeping me from reaching John…? Another surge of dizziness strikes and I am back on my mountainside, watching child-Delenn fight in her father's grip. She half-turns toward him and batters his shoulder with her small fists. Then, abruptly, she sags against him. The sound of her frenzied weeping carries to where I am, borne to my knees amid the hala. He holds her as she cries, neither of them looking at the flyer that has shrunk to a dot high above. I do not need to hear what he is murmuring in her ear. The words rise in my memory with the sharp clarity of a glass shard. _I'm sorry, little one. She has to go. There is no choice. I am so very sorry.

_ It comes as a shock when I try to wipe my own tears away and my gloved hand meets the hard front of the space-suit helmet. I want my father so badly, it hurts. I want his strong arms around me, his warmth to nestle into, his strength to lean on. But I lost all those things long ago._

_I close my eyes and try to conjure them. Warmth and strength, surrounding and uplifting me… Memory comes to my rescue. Strong arms around me, the musky scent of human sweat, the soft press of lips against my forehead. John. In a disused chamber, gloomy and shadowed, with the echo of a cane on the deck receding into the distance. He is alive and with me, the day we survived the Inquisitor. The day we learned that we _were_ the right people, in the right place, at the right time…_

_Wind howls in my ears. Something pulls at me from deep within, and I am engulfed once more in blue-white light. _

**ooOoo**

_Someone is holding me close. Familiar arms, a familiar scent. John. We hold each other in silence, with more silence all around us. There are tears on my cheeks still, but not for child-Delenn. I know that, though I cannot tell how. Something else has caused my sorrow, mingled as it is with joy and fear and other, unexpected emotions. Gratitude… and pity. For whom?_

_Images flash through my mind, so rapidly it is hard to absorb them. Londo Mollari, impossibly aged and well the worse for drink, seated on a throne as a golden goblet falls from his hand… a dark room with dank walls… John, doubled over in pain, in a corridor hung with white silk… the red-coated back of a Centauri imperial guard, hurrying before us down that same corridor. These are memories, I realize slowly. But not mine. Or at least, not mine yet. I have come to my future. One that _will_ come to pass, or that only _may_ come to pass? I have no way to tell. _

_This time, I am not separate from the self whose present I inhabit. I am part of her, embodied with her. I don't understand how this can be, or how to move on. How to get back to the John of my own time. And Sinclair, and Susan and Marcus and Lennier and all the rest._

_I lift my head and gaze into John's eyes. He is older, his face weathered with time and painful experience. His eyes glisten, and wetness adorns his cheek. A smile curves my lips, though inside I am still crying. Words come, strained with grief: "I said it well, didn't I?"_

_He nods and blinks hard. "You did." His voice sounds thick, muffled, as if he is forcing himself to speak. His hand brushes my cheek, lingers there. Then he pulls me close again, holding me so hard that for a moment I cannot breathe. "I'm sorry, love. I'm so sorry."_

_I pull away slightly; my fingers find his lips. "Ssh." Around me, I can see the deserted bridge of a White Star. We are the only ones on it; it must be on autopilot, ready to carry us away from wherever we were. Wherever the dark room was, and Londo, and the corridor hung with white silk. "You gave us a chance. There would have been none otherwise."_

_Within my older self, my mind races. What is she—am I—saying? What does it mean? Or is that a fool's question, when I do not even know whether any of this will take place?_

_He covers my hand with his, kisses my fingers, strokes my hair. Then takes a deep breath and steps away, though he keeps loose hold of me. "Let's go home." In his voice I hear the grim resolution of the warrior he has always been. "And come back with a goddamn armada."_

**ooOoo**

_ The transition, when it comes this time, feels almost familiar. One moment I am on the near-empty White Star, the next drifting again in the blue-white fog. Familiar or not, I am frightened now. Only an echo of that emotion, but there nonetheless. I cannot find my way through the fog, cannot impose the slightest control over my wanderings through time. Is this how John felt when he was adrift? Helpless and alone, un-anchored to anything or anyone?_

_ I want an anchor. I am desperate for it. I try to focus on John, Sinclair, Babylon Four—but I can keep hold of nothing for more than an instant. If I could feel my own heartbeat, it would be pounding like a sunrise drum. Then, suddenly, there comes a sense of presence. A presence known to me, though my wits are too scattered in the fog to place it precisely. The presence registers shock, then fierce protectiveness and determination. _Child,_ it says—half scolding, half affectionate. _You should not be adrift. I will help. Are you listening?

_ Draal. How he is here in the fog with me, I don't know—but relief floods through me, along with the ghost of humor. Typical of him, to waste no time in hows or whys or wherefores. I need help; he will give it. Everything else can come later. _

Yes,_ I tell him, and wait. _

_Concentration. Effort. The sense of muscles burning under strain. The fog ripples. Solidifies, almost. Before me, stretching out into the pale nothingness, are the faint outlines of a path. _

It will not hold for long,_ Draal says. _I must maintain the field. Follow the path, and think of Sheridan and Sinclair. They are strongest in your heart. Keep them there, and let your heart lead you.

_His "voice" is losing strength, growing fainter. I can feel my heartbeat now, fast and hard. What if I cannot do it? What if I fail? Worse, what if our mission fails because I do?_

_I focus on the path. Imagine myself setting foot on it. It is difficult to concentrate, more difficult than anything I have ever done. A dim sense of my physical boundaries returns to me. I take a step, and another, and another. The path holds. I conjure John's face in my mind, then Sinclair's. The last time I saw them both was on Babylon Four…_

_A burst of confidence from Draal; a sense of blessing. Then I am hurtling through the blue-white fog toward an unknown destination. I hold hard to my awareness of John, of Sinclair. And of hope, that this time I will go where my heart lies._

**ooOoo**

_ Gray walls shimmer into view. Pale gray metal, with struts and girders framing a large, slightly rounded open space. Some crates stacked in a corner where the floor widens out. A docking bay. On Babylon Four._

_ Relief rushes through me, intense and overwhelming. I am aware of my physical self again, though its boundaries feel oddly temporary. I am not quite all the way here; the chaos of the time field pulls at me, like a riptide trying to drag me back to deeper water. I focus hard on staying exactly where I am. The pull is fierce, but I can resist it. Just. Sounds echo around me—the subtle hum of air recyclers and other machinery that lets this station live and breathe. Also running footsteps and voices nearby: "…evac procedures…" "…never been tested!..." "…then it's about damned time…"_

_ The voices break off. Someone shouts. A bearded man in a uniform—EarthForce blue—steps into my line of sight. He holds a PPG. Looking panicked, he shakily raises the weapon._

_ "Don't!" Another man, a few years older, clamps down on the first one's arm. "It's not even solid. God knows what you'll hit. Get the captain!"_

_ The bearded man rushes off. The other stares at me as if I am a ghost. In a way, he is right. My outlines feel blurred; I am still half-caught by the tide. The pull of it is lessening, though. Whatever battle I am fighting to remain here and now, I am winning it._

_ Off to the side, a door whispers open. Rushing footsteps follow. Several figures surround me—at a distance, as if afraid to come too close. My heart leaps as I recognize Sinclair among them. Not the Sinclair of my present, but the one from the recent past. From 2258, to be precise. Near him is Zathras, who looks at me with wonder in his eyes. _

_ The pull of the time field subsides. Exhausted by my struggle with it, I sink to my knees. I feel like a piece of driftwood washed up on the shore. I do not know what Sinclair-then and the others will do, or what will happen next. I should move, run away, disappear… but I am spent. All I can do is breathe and gather my strength, while I try to work out where Sinclair-now is. And John. _

_ Sinclair-then locks eyes with me. Mercifully, he cannot see my face through the space-suit helmet. Even changed as I am from the Delenn he knows, he would surely recognize me… and I do not want to think of the mess _that _would make of the past and present, let alone the future. Behind him, Zathras lays a hand on his shoulder and speaks: "It is the One!"_

_Sinclair-then slowly moves toward me. He kneels and reaches out. My arm rises as if of its own volition. Our hands touch. A soundless explosion of blue-white light obliterates the bay for an instant. Panic shoots up my spine—am I adrift in chaos again? Then the light dies, and I am still on Babylon Four. Still solid. And, for a wonder, able to stand._

_ Sinclair-then has been thrown to the floor. Other uniformed figures surround him, helping him up. While they are busy, Zathras runs up to me. Something round and silver glints in his hand. The time stabilizer. He thrusts it at me. "Fixed!" he says, in an urgent whisper. "Zathras fixed! Take! Hurry!"_

_ As my fingers close over it, I feel once more the wrenching of the time field. The last thing I see as the docking bay vanishes is Zathras' sturdy figure, his face ablaze with hope._

**ooOoo**

The bridge of the White Star swam into being around me. Not the silent, near-empty one of my journey to the future, but the ship of my own time. It was full of people, just as it should be: the crew, and Lennier. Despite my crushing fatigue, despite the ordeal of my random journeys through time, the sight of them all brought light to my heart. Faith—and Zathras—had managed, and brought me safe home to my own time again.

They were all staring open-mouthed at me. I stumbled, and caught for balance at the nearest thing within reach. An arm, sleeved in Minbari silk. Lennier had moved very quickly; his grip steadied me as I raised my free hand toward the space-suit helmet. He helped me undo the seal and lift it off, and I took a deep, welcome breath of air that did not smell of my own sweat. Strands of hair were plastered to my neck: damp, itchy and inconvenient. For a moment, I almost wished I was my fully Minbari self again.

Lennier's expression combined relief with bewilderment. "Delenn, how did you… what are you doing in…?"

"It is a long story…" I could not stop looking at him, could not keep what must have been a foolish grin off my face. It was so good to see him, to know I was back _when_ I belonged. But I was not finished… not quite. "Captain Sheridan—he is all right?"

Lennier nodded. "As far as I know. He and Marcus are on the station, taking care of a few last things."

The weight on my heart lifted, as if it had never been there. John was safe; we would see each other soon. "I need to go back to Babylon Four. They still have Zathras; we cannot leave him here. And they must not see who I am."

He frowned, and for a moment looked as if he might argue. Then he bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Entil'zha is on his way in; Commander Ivanova has control of the core. Once the entire Babylon Four crew is evacuated…"

"I will be quick." I settled the helmet over my head, then left the bridge.

**ooOoo**

The station shook as I ran through the corridors, heading toward the bay where I had last seen Zathras. The beacon Sinclair and John had attached to Babylon Four's reactor core was rumbling to life; time, once seemingly endless, was growing desperately short. Increasingly powerful tremors shook girders and gantries loose; a thick metal pole nearly twice my height narrowly missed me as I sped past it. I felt a stab of panic; if it was this bad now, would the station survive its trip through time? _Don't be a fool,_ I told myself as I ducked more falling debris. _It did survive. If it had not, you would not be here now to help steal it. _

Voices floated down a corridor up ahead, along with the sound of hurrying feet. One of the voices belonged to Sinclair, another to Zathras. _They must be taking him with them_, I thought, and hurried forward. As I neared the turn in the corridor, I slowed a fraction. It would not do to be seen at this juncture. Nothing could be allowed to halt the evacuation of Babylon Four. I spared a thought for Sinclair—both of them—and for Garibaldi, whose past self, I recalled, had also come aboard during the station's 2258 reappearance. "Safe journey," I whispered, then peered around the bend. I caught a flash of EarthForce blue, the pale gray of Security uniforms, and Zathras' stocky figure as they turned a corner at the far end. Moving as silently as I could, I hurried after them.

A massive tremor shook the station. I staggered and fell. Up ahead, I heard a shriek of metal and a crash loud as thunder. Then cries of alarm and Zathras' voice. In pain. I struggled upright and ran forward, heedless now of any noise I might make. What had happened to Zathras? And what of Sinclair?

"Go!" I heard Zathras shout. "Please! Go—for Zathras!"

I rounded a bend and found myself in a cargo bay. Sinclair-then was there, his back to me, bent over something I could not see. I halted, scarcely breathing, as he straightened up and ran out of the bay. I saw Zathras then, lying on the floor, his shaggy head just visible beneath a pile of debris. Heart in my throat, I drew closer. A large stanchion, several feet tall, had fallen and pinned him under it. He was injured, surely. I could only pray it was not so bad that he couldn't be moved.

As I reached him, he shifted his head slightly and smiled up at me. "Zathras knew you would not leave him," he said softly, with the simple faith of a small child. "Zathras trusts the One."

I lifted the helmet off and knelt beside him. "Are you hurt?"

"A bruise," he said stoically. "Zathras has many bruises. They come with being beast of burden. It is hard life, but Zathras does not mind…"

Laughter borne of relief bubbled up before I could stop it. I reached out, grasped the stanchion and gave it a gentle push. It seemed willing to move if I put enough strength into it. "Then let us free you, my friend," I told him. "And then let us go where we belong."

**ooOoo**

What little remained of our mission, we accomplished swiftly. When the moment came for Sinclair to leave us, I found it more painful than I expected. I had thought myself done with mourning for my friend, who would effectively cease to exist once he went back to the past. I was wrong.

Marcus, with his bent toward self-sacrifice, was the first to spot Sinclair's attempt at deception. Sinclair meant it well—he did not want to burden anyone else with the knowledge of his fate until the last possible second—but Marcus had an instinct about these things. Susan did not want to accept it either, not even after Sinclair showed the letter he had written to himself from nine hundred years ago. It was difficult for me to confirm the truth he spoke; the necessary words almost would not come out of my mouth. I felt so deeply for Susan, who was caught between anger and tears; for Marcus, who had seen so much loss already and now faced it again; for John, too stunned to feel grief yet, but whose time for mourning would come. And for myself, who had also faced too much loss to easily accept another. Even knowing why Sinclair must leave, and what he would become, it cost us dear to let him go.

Zathras stayed, in the end. They had a destiny, he said, his gruff voice full of quiet pride. John shook Sinclair's hand, and I saw in his face that he only now fully realized it was for the last time.

Then it was my turn.

Minbari have no word for goodbye. Our farewells, when we make them, always imply the hope of meeting again. Even when someone dies, we do not say goodbye. "Good night" is as close as we get; it reflects our faith that our loved ones will rejoin us in another lifetime, and in the place where no shadows fall. Yet in this moment, I knew I would not see Jeffrey Sinclair again. He had been my first human friend, the unwitting instrument of my redemption at the Battle of the Line. In so many ways, he had shaped my life. And now he was going on a one-way journey, to save and to guide a people he knew would one day come near to obliterating his own. There were no words for such courage, such faith, such love. What could I say that would even begin to tell him what he meant to me—as the man he was now, and as the one he would soon become?

I said nothing. Instead, I spoke with a gesture. A Minbari farewell, given to those who are closer in soul than kin. One hand over my heart, the other held out toward his.

He made the same gesture back. I felt tears rising, but managed not to shed them. I turned toward John, and we left C&C together. Left Zathras and Sinclair to their destiny, which had already shaped ours.

**ooOoo**

It seemed a long walk back to the White Star, even though we hurried because we knew time was short. Our footsteps were the only sound in the silence. John's presence beside me was a comfort, a spark of warmth amid my bleak inner chill. I felt his eyes on me, but my sense of loss was too raw for me to accept the sympathy I knew I would see if I looked up. After a moment, he took my hand. I twined my fingers in his. An anchor, that hand; tangible proof of a beloved one I had not lost yet. I prayed I never would.

"Do me a favor," John said softly.

The tremor in his voice was subtle, but I heard it anyway. I glanced up. He was smiling slightly, but his eyes were shadowed. From Sinclair's loss, and something more.

My reply was quiet also. "What?"

"When I woke up with that stabilizer on, and realized who had to've put it there…" He swallowed, and his grip on my fingers tightened. "Don't ever scare me like that again. Please."

I took a breath, then let it go. What he was asking might well be impossible, with the Shadow War raging across vast swathes of known space. Who knew what either of us might be asked to risk before this was over? I thought of Z'ha'dum—what he had said when Kosh died—and shivered. John noticed. Concern crossed his face, and he drew breath as if to ask what was wrong.

I didn't want to talk about it. I managed a smile of my own, sad thing though it was. "I won't if you won't."

He stared at me, then dissolved into quiet laughter. I found myself laughing with him, though for both of us it was on the edge of tears.


	33. Chapter 33

**Author's Note: **This section covers the episode "Walkabout". A small amount of dialogue is quoted from that episode. A single line (in a gapfiller scene) is also quoted from _The Princess Bride_. Gapfiller scenes, as always, are my own.

**Part 34—Rules of Engagement**

So it was back to the war, back to our ad-hoc alliance, back to chaos as usual aboard Babylon Five. The loss of Sinclair weighed on us all, but the press of day-to-day events was relentless, and there was little time to dwell on how much we missed him. It was worst for Garibaldi; we at least had been able to share in Sinclair's last days as himself, but Garibaldi missed them entirely. He knew nothing of them, save for a time-delayed farewell message Sinclair left on his comm unit. "He didn't trust me," he told me later, bitterly, when I found him brooding over a half-eaten sandwich in his favorite coffee shop. "Jeff didn't trust me enough to let me help with what you were doing. That kills me, you know? That he didn't think he could tell me about it."

"He wanted to keep you safe," I told him. A desire strong enough to overpower clearer judgment, as I would soon realize all too well. "He did not mean to hurt you, or leave you feeling this way."

"I know." He scowled at his sandwich and toyed with the pickle spear that lay next to it. "But it almost doesn't make a difference. I still feel like..." He trailed off with a harsh sigh. "I wish he'd told me. I wish I'd been part of things. Or at least that he'd let me make my own damned decision about it."

I laid a hand on his arm. He gave me a crooked half-smile. "Listen to me, huh? Not enough for me, putting up with all the crap I put up with around here. No, I get pissed off because I missed a chance to risk my goddamned neck. How's that for stupid?"

"Loyal," I said softly. "And a good man who misses his friend. As do we all."

Of those who went to Babylon Four, in some ways Susan took Sinclair's absence hardest. Her friendship with him, forged over his single year as Babylon Five's commander, ran deep. She did not give her regard easily… but when she did, she gave it completely. Like a rainbow crawler retreating inside its shell, she wrapped herself around the hole Sinclair's departure had left, and became ever more terrifyingly competent in C&C. Swamped in work as I was myself—minor diplomatic crises erupted among the envoys from the non-aligned worlds at least twice a day—it was some time before she and I could exchange anything more than a passing smile and a nod in the hallway. And—as always—we had other troubles to contend with. Stephen, for one; Kosh's replacement, for another.

Poor Stephen. The day came when he could no longer hide from his "problem." He had hinted at it during the _nafak'cha_; now, so long afterward, it was crippling him. He was an addict, unable to cope with his punishing work schedule and his own demands on himself without the regular injection of stims. A little of what Garibaldi called "tough love" helped him to face it before he did himself or anyone else irreparable harm—but his resignation as Chief Medical Officer, and his subsequent decision to lose himself on-station in what he described as a "walkabout" ritual, deprived us of a valued comrade and gave us one more worry when we already had all we could deal with. John began having trouble sleeping; I could see it in his pallor, the new lines that seemed to appear in his face every day. Stephen's absence made it worse, all the more because we could do nothing for him. We could only wish him well and wait for things to play out, and hope he would be all right.

It was strange not to see him in Medlab One; stranger still not to see him at least every few days, with his quiet smile and restless intelligence absorbing everything around him. He was facing his _mora'dum_, his moment of reckoning—alone, as we all must. At odd moments, I found myself recalling my first glimpse of him, captive aboard the _Valen'tha _all those years ago… and I marveled at how different my universe had become, that a nameless soldier of an enemy race should now be a friend whose pain left a burden on my own heart.

The new Vorlon ambassador proved a different kind of burden. The day after his arrival, I went to see him—partly for courtesy's sake, but also in hopes of renewing the partnership I had built with Kosh. I expected little difficulty. All my life, the Vorlons had been teachers of my people, guiding us with a loving hand as parents guide their children. In such a light had Kosh seen me; I knew of no reason why his replacement should do otherwise.

I presented myself in Kosh's quarters, where his successor had taken up residence. There was no trace left of the violence enacted there that had cost Kosh his life. Only the new Vorlon, hidden inside his encounter suit, waiting for me to speak.

I greeted him with the deep bow of a subordinate to an elder. "I am Delenn _ys_ Mir, and most honored to make your acquaintance. I am sorry for your loss. Kosh was greatly valued, and will be much missed."

He was silent, unmoving. Then: "Sorrow is not needed." His tone was flat, unencumbered by even a hint of emotion.

My throat felt dry suddenly, and I had to swallow before continuing. "May I know how you are called?"

"Kosh," he said, in that same flat tone. Then silence again.

I didn't understand. He was _not_ Kosh. He was someone else. How could he take Kosh's name, as if claiming for himself the meaning of Kosh's life? I clasped my hands tightly together, hoping he would not see how distressed I was, and forged on. "I do not know how much you were told of how Kosh"—I stumbled over the name—"and I worked together… if you have a little time now, I would be happy to—"

He cut me off, his voice still flat and a touch cold. "You will be told when to be of use. You are not of use now. You will go."

I stammered in response, not quite believing what I had just heard. "I… I am sorry, I don't understand—"

"You are not of use now." He spoke more slowly this time, each word clipped and curt. "You will go."

Bewilderment made me protest. "But—"

The iris in his helmet opened. Within it, light glowed red. I felt my skin prickle, as if lightning were about to strike. "Presumptious. Go. _Now_."

I turned and left—without another word, without a bow, as swiftly as my feet could carry me. I was two corridors away before the full impact hit me, and I sagged against the wall. I was trembling deep within, as if I had walked for an hour in a snowstorm. Never before in the presence of a Vorlon had I felt danger. Not even when Kosh—the true one—told me of the Inquisitor in a tone as remote as the furthest reaches of space. What could be the meaning of this? And what, if anything, could I do about it?

"You all right?"

The new voice startled me, for all it was familiar and friendly. "Mr. Allen." I took a deep breath, with an attempt at a smile, and pushed away from the wall. "I am well enough. It was merely… an unsettling encounter with the new Vorlon ambassador. Nothing to make you concerned."

"_That_ guy," he said with feeling. "I'm not surprised." He leaned toward me and lowered his voice. "Between you and me? He gives me the creeps. Not like I even talked to him; I was just in the same room with him for five minutes. That was all it took." Then he frowned. "He say something to you? Something that, you know, bothered you? 'Cause if he did—"

I felt a slight—very slight—desire to laugh at his automatic impulse to defend me. The instinctive protectiveness of many human males toward women, especially women who looked small and delicate as I did, had been the subject of more than a few conversations between Susan and I. "It was more his manner," I told him, truthfully enough. "Perhaps it was no more than a misunderstanding, and we will sort it out later. I have no wish to cause an incident…"

"Course not." He glanced away, looking abashed, then back at me. "Still, you ever have a problem with him, you come tell me. Or the Chief. All right?"

"I will keep that in mind." His concern reassured me, even though I knew I would never ask him to act on it. Whatever difficulties might arise with Kosh's successor, I would deal with them myself as best I could. Or I would tell John, and we would deal with them together.

The thought of John lifted my spirits further. I should speak to him about this encounter, see what he thought. With a hasty farewell to Mr. Allen, I turned my steps toward Blue Sector.

I had not gotten far when swift footsteps sounded from the cross-corridor up ahead. After a moment, Lyta Alexander came into view. She was hurrying, head down, a tense look on what I could see of her face.

I found myself echoing Mr. Allen's words to me. "Lyta, are you all right?"

Her head shot up. I was shocked by her pallor. "What? Fine. Yes. I'm fine." She started to move past me, then halted. "Were you with—" She pressed her lips together before continuing. "With the Vorlon ambassador?"

"I went to pay my respects, yes." I watched her, wondering at her manner. Guarded and nervous, it was most unlike her.

"How was he? Did he… receive you well?"

I did not want to tell her anything likely to make her more anxious, but I saw no way around it. "He was… displeased to be disturbed, I think. He prefers to contact me at his own discretion."

Her face drained of what little color it possessed. "Oh, god." The words came out as if she was not fully aware of having said them. Then she blinked and steeled herself. "I have to go," she said, and hurried away.

My unease came back, twice as strongly as before. Who was this new Vorlon, and how had he frightened Lyta so? I started down the hallway after her, then stopped. Whatever the situation was, it could not be good. But without knowing the details, I might easily make things worse. I needed to know more before I could help Lyta, or even think where to begin.

John should know of this, at any rate. As Kosh's aide, Lyta was not under his direct command—but she was a friend, and she worked for one who was meant to be our ally. Anything that concerned her, concerned us.

One last look over my shoulder, in the direction Lyta had gone; then I moved on toward Blue Sector.

**ooOoo**

"I was just coming to see you," John said, rising from behind his desk as I entered his office. It was good to see him out of the War Room, tending to station business other than battles. He came toward me with that smile I loved, the one that lit up his face and warmed the room. "I had an idea I wanted to bounce off you—" The smile vanished, replaced by concern as he drew closer to me. "Are you okay? You look upset."

My hand crept up beneath my hair. "I had not realized it still shows." Briefly, I told him of my visit with the Vorlon and the subsequent encounter with Lyta in the hall. "I cannot call him Kosh, he is _not_… He is very different. And not in a way I would call good. Certainly not for Lyta, if what I saw is anything to judge by."

"It's Lyta I want to talk about, actually." He perched on a corner of his desk, one leg swinging. I was reminded of a small boy sitting on a tree branch. The thought lightened the lingering tension that plagued me, and I felt myself smiling as I nodded for him to go on.

Swiftly and succinctly, he explained his idea. "Bester claimed the Shadow vessels are afraid of telepaths. Garibaldi's information from the Book of G'Qan backs that up. What if telepaths can jam them—make it impossible for them to keep control of whatever living being they've hijacked to be their central operating system? Maybe even immobilize them, leave them vulnerable to attack? I'd like to test it. Lyta's here, on hand, and it wouldn't surprise me if her work with the Vorlons gives her some kind of edge against the Shadows. God knows what exactly, but I'm guessing there's something." He folded his arms across his chest, his expression turning sober. "She hasn't been looking well lately, and I'm thinking the Vorlon has something to do with it. There's something… I don't know… _cold_ about him. Like we're curiosities to him at best—or tools. Pieces on a game board. Something to use that he doesn't give much of a personal damn about." He shook his head. "I thought I was overreacting… you know, to the fact that he's not Kosh. But from what you just told me, it sounds like I wasn't. It might be good to get Lyta away from him for awhile."

I leaned against the desk next to him. "And this mission is the perfect excuse."

"Yup. So what do you think?"

"The idea is good…" I said slowly. "If, as we believe, we have a potential weapon in Lyta and other telepaths, it makes sense to test it."

"But," he said quietly after a moment. "I know there is one. I can hear it in your voice."

"You know me too well." I ought to have found it embarrassing to be so easily read. Instead, it was comforting—another sign of the connection between us. I pushed away from the desk and took a few steps across the office, gathering my thoughts. I did not like the risk he would be taking, going up against a Shadow vessel with no certainty of success. He was right, of course—our theory must be tested, and there was no other way to do it. But I had read too many ancient accounts from the last Shadow War, and could not shake my dread of their ships' destructive power.

"You don't like the risk," he said, as if he had read my mind.

"No." My hands found each other; I toyed with my fingers. "And I am trying very hard not to let that influence my judgment, because I know we must take risks. You must. I must. Lyta, Susan, Lennier, G'Kar, Garibaldi, Marcus… all the Anla'shok… We are none of us exempt. Only…" To my surprise, my voice shook a little. "I sometimes wish we were."

"Hey." He stood and came over to me, took my hands in his. Until his warmth enveloped them, I had not realized how cold they were. "We all know what we're up against. What could happen. But I will promise you this. I won't take any risks that I don't have to. Or ask anyone else to do so."

It was that second part that worried me. He had so far implied a solo flight—the White Star, alone, finding and taking on a single Shadow vessel. With a single telepath. But what if Lyta were not strong enough? She was, by her own reckoning, only a P-5. Strong enough for commercial work, but for this? And even if she succeeded, could the White Star destroy a Shadow vessel on its own? "There should be—what is the word?—backup. Escort ships, to provide extra firepower. Preferably with other telepaths on board, in case the task is beyond Lyta's strength. If the Shadow vessel you target manages to call for aid—"

He was shaking his head. "I don't want to risk any more people than we have to." He let me go and began to pace, as he often did when thinking aloud. "If Lyta isn't strong enough to do it on her own, we need to know that. We'll wait in hyperspace till we hear of a Shadow attack, jump in after a straggler, Lyta tries her whammy on it, and if it doesn't work, we'll jump right out. The White Star's fast; we should be okay."

"'Should be' is not good enough." I held his gaze with just enough challenge to let him see I meant it. "You said you will take no risks that you don't have to. Trying this with no escort is just such a risk. What if the target gets off a distress call? What if it has allies closer to hand than we expect? What if the White Star is _not_ fast enough—or cannot destroy the enemy ship even if Lyta immobilizes it? You will be risking yourself and her, and the crew. A few escort ships will minimize that. And if we wait in hyperspace, there is virtually no risk to us."

Now it was his turn to give me a challenging look. "I'm open to a few escort ships. The extra firepower'd be welcome. But I'd rather not risk more telepaths. We don't have that many as it is—and the Shadow vessel we ran into in hyperspace with Bester was definitely aware of him. For all we know, more telepaths might act like a beacon; draw trouble straight to us." He hesitated for half a second, and I guessed what was coming. "And you shouldn't be with the escort. If things do go badly wrong, there's no sense putting both of us in danger. Someone needs to stay here and keep things going."

If my change from Minbari to part-human had given me eyebrows, I would have raised one. I forbore to point out that I was there on the missions to Zagros Seven to aid the Rangers, and to Ganymede to destroy the Shadow ship captured by Psi Corps. And the mission to steal Babylon Four, the most hazardous of all we had yet undertaken. It seemed a bit late to worry about putting me in danger. "_Now _who doesn't like the risk?"

"I'm serious." He sounded annoyed. I gazed steadily at him, and after a moment he sighed. "And yes, all right, you caught me. I am trying to safeguard you. Is that so bad?"

His pleading look made my heart melt. "No. I cannot pretend I would not do the same."

He came toward me again and took my hands. "An escort, then. But no additional telepaths, and you stay here." He gave me a crooked half-smile. "Won't you have fun, trying to drag a few more what's-in-it-for-me politicos from the non-aligned worlds into this grand alliance we're cooking up."

I smiled back. "Stacking a few more marbles in a corner. At least it will distract me."

"You're better at it than I am, anyway."

I tilted my head at him. "Ah, but I have had far more practice."

I left him a short while later to the paperwork he termed his "slough of despair." I had gotten one thing I wanted for this mission. I was determined to have another. So I went back to my quarters and placed a call to Susan Ivanova.

**ooOoo**

"Goddamned macho male bullshit." Susan paced across her sitting-room, a cup of strong coffee in her hands. It was two hours later; she had just come off-shift. "Pardon my language; I can't help it. I love John like a brother, but sometimes he can be such a _guy_."

I knew what _guy_ meant, especially when spoken in _that_ tone. The tendency toward unthinking, misplaced bravery was not, alas, solely the province of human males; more often than not, Minbari men suffered from it too. I sipped the tea she had brewed me and set down my cup. "So what do we do about it? How do we get him to accept more telepaths? It was hard enough to get him to accept an escort at all."

She shrugged. "I'd say just show up with them, but I suppose that's too underhanded. We don't want him thinking he can't trust our word, or that we just flat-out don't listen to him." A quick grin crossed her face, like a shaft of light through clouds. "Even when that happens to be true." Then the clouds came back, and I knew she was thinking of Sinclair. She caught my look and sighed. "I still hate it that Jeff's gone, even though he chose it. And I'm in no mood to lose anyone else anytime soon."

A sentiment I shared. I lifted my teacup, but didn't drink; the warmth was what I wanted. Susan sipped her coffee with a thoughtful look, then darted a glance at me. "You didn't promise him no additional telepaths? Not even obliquely?"

I shook my head. "I was quite careful not to. The only promise I made, indirectly, was not to come with the escort ships myself." A sigh escaped me at that. "And I will keep my promise. Though I would much rather not."

Sympathy shone in her eyes. "We'll keep him as safe as we can in spite of himself." She sipped more coffee, and her thoughtful frown slowly gave way to a wicked grin. She came and sat beside me, coffee cup braced on her knee. "And I know just how to pull it off..."

**ooOoo**

Our plan worked perfectly. At the War Council meeting the next day, I offered a Minbari cruiser as escort the moment John asked—as expected, and in hopes of prompting others to offer ships as well. Except for G'Kar, no one else did—which was awkward, but I could work on them in the hours before John left. G'Kar was willing to lend the Narn warship _G'Tok_, provided her commander consented. All well and good. Before the subject was tabled, I brought up my concern—in front of the entire War Council—that Lyta on her own might not be strong enough to jam whatever Shadow vessel they found. Susan immediately proposed adding telepaths to the Minbari escort ship. As she had predicted, that was all it took. With the enthusiastic endorsement of Garibaldi, who regarded it as his personal mission to keep all of us breathing, John's objection was swiftly overruled.

"The ayes have it. The War Council has spoken. You'll do it our way," Susan told him, with an expression that dared him to protest further. Being a wise man, he subsided… but not before giving me a look that said he and I were going to have a conversation about this if he could find the time before his departure. I gave him a look right back—and then, as he turned away to confer with Garibaldi about something, traded a triumphant fist-bump with Susan that she'd picked up from early 21st-century flatvids. We had done what we meant to do, and everyone aboard the White Star would be safer for it.

John ambled over to me a few minutes later, as the meeting was breaking up. "You and Susan work that out in advance, did you?" He was trying to look stern, but there was humor in his tone.

I gave him a sideways glance. "And if we did?"

"Then I've been outsmarted." He favored me with a mock scowl. "Danged meddling womenfolk…"

I laughed at that. "If you don't like it, then don't, as Susan says, be such a guy."

It was the last light-hearted moment I would have for some days.

Not going on the escort ship was among the hardest things I have ever done. I could not shake the idiotic superstition that I _should_ have gone, in spite of my promise… and in spite of the work that still needed doing on Babylon Five. An irrational part of me insisted—in the moments before sleep finally came, or late at night when I woke for no good reason—that my mere presence would have safeguarded John even further, and that something terrible would happen because I was not there. Once or twice I remembered his words about Z'ha'dum, and on those nights I gave up as useless any hope of resuming sleep. Meditation helped somewhat to calm my anxieties, but I could not have been easy to live with. I missed Lennier, who had gone with the skeleton crew as a translator. He had agreed with no hesitation when John asked; his courage made me proud. Yet I found myself fearful for him as well, and sorely in need of his unflappable presence to steady me down. With Lennier and John both gone, I felt unanchored, like an empty fishing boat adrift on the Inland Sea.

Meanwhile, the delicate political dance went on between our nascent alliance and the as-yet uncommitted governments from the Non-Aligned Worlds that we hoped to add to it. The Brakiri had joined in the wake of the successful Vorlon assault, and the Hyach, the Drazi and the Pak'mara, but many others had yet to come into the fold. I was uniquely suited to this thankless but vital task. Growing up in a powerful religious caste clan, I had absorbed Minbari clan and caste politics—a web of loyalties and counter-loyalties so complex, it made stacking marbles in a corner look easy by comparison. Over the long days of the White Star's absence, I persuaded five more ambassadors that their governments should join, and coaxed additional ships for the war effort from four of those who had already signed on. A grand total of nine, three times three. A number full of meaning among Minbari. I chose to take it as an omen.

An even better omen was G'Kar's belated success in persuading the captain of the _G'Tok_ to lend us the use of the Narn war cruiser. It and several additional ships from other allied races—organized at G'Kar's impassioned urging—belatedly joined the Minbari cruiser _Mirilenn_ as escorts to the White Star. Just in time, I found out later, after the White Star returned with glowing reports of success. Though it was not John who told me of the White Star's narrow escape. It was Lennier.

"I have rarely felt so relieved in all my life as when I heard G'Kar hailing us," Lennier told me, as we shared a working lunch in my quarters. "Lyta _was_ able to stop the target Shadow vessel, and we managed to destroy it, but it sent a distress call first. Our power was too drained for the jump engines to function—and then four Shadow ships arrived out of nowhere. The _Mirilenn_'s telepaths could only jam three of them, and Lyta was too spent to take on the fourth. It locked on to us and was ready to fire. I truly believed we would not survive." He speared a kenar leaf and ate it with the slow relish of someone who had faced the certainty of never tasting it, or anything else, again. "But then the _G'Tok_ appeared and fired on our enemy. Together, we destroyed it—and when G'Kar's fleet jumped out of hyperspace, the rest of the Shadows ran." He could not hide his delight at saying this. "I have never known that to happen before. But we made it happen. Captain Sheridan, and Lyta, and the _Mirilenn_, and the crew of the _G'Tok_, and G'Kar, and the crews of those other ships. We were united, and they ran from us."

He set down his fork and gave me an approving glance. "You were right, Delenn. Joining our strength to that of others strengthens us all. I have believed this since coming here, but mainly as a matter of faith. On this mission, I saw it in action. Truly saw and understood it for the first time." He shook his head as he reached for his water glass. "If only the warriors on the Grey Council could see it. They would be at our side in a heartbeat."

"I wish they had seen it before. If they had, the Council need not have been broken." The sharp note in my voice must have startled him; his eyes widened briefly before he chose to ignore it. I covered my own embarrassment at my lapse by stabbing my fork through a pair of kenar leaves. My sharpness was not for Lennier. Or for the stubborn warriors on the Grey Council, come to that. I ate my morsel, but scarcely noticed its taste. Why had John not told me all of what happened on the mission? He had fobbed me off with tales of success, but never said how dearly that success had almost been bought. Did he not trust my response? Did he think I would panic, or make unreasonable demands that he be kept safe while others faced danger? He should know me better by now. For Lennier's sake I kept outward calm, but inside I was seething. We were in this together, John and I. Sharing the risk, the responsibility, the burdens. If he thought to take on more than his share, to keep from me what was mine by right to know and do, then he and I would have a conversation. And he would _not_ enjoy it.

Lunch finished and work done, Lennier took himself off for some much-needed rest. I paced around my sitting-room after he left, caught between anger and uncertainty. Part of me wanted to find John and have things out, while my better sense counseled caution. In my present emotional state, I was highly likely to say something I would later regret. Meditation seemed the wiser course, at least until I felt calmer.

Breathing slowly, staring into the candle flame, steadied me as always. As I focused on the pinpoint of light and my turbulent thoughts smoothed out, I began to reconsider my response to Lennier's account. John should have told me everything; there was no question about that. But was my anger truly justified? I found myself recalling our talk just days ago, when John first proposed the mission to me. The quaver in my voice that I couldn't quite hide when I acknowledged the necessity of his endangering himself. I had said outright that I wished it need not be so. He had believed me; not telling the whole truth was his way of sparing me what little he could. I felt a tug at my heart, half joy and half pain. His motive was kind, even noble—and his actions were completely unnecessary. And unwanted. I had not wished, _did_ not wish, to be spared knowledge; I had wished, vainly, to be spared harsh necessity. This I had confessed in an unguarded moment, and it seemed he had misunderstood.

Well, then. I leaned forward and blew out the candle. I had made room for this error; I would do what I could to put it right.

**ooOoo**

John was not in the War Room, I discovered when I turned up there a few hours later with takeout cartons from the little Thai restaurant at the south end of the Zocalo. "I chased him out," Susan said, deadpan but with a gleam in her eye. "Told him if he didn't go home and get some rest, I'd brain him with the non-business end of my PPG." She sniffed appreciatively. "Ginger chicken? Good choice. You'll find him in his quarters, if he knows what's good for him."

I thanked her and left. John's "Yes?" over the comm when I arrived at his door sounded weary, but when I went in, he was smiling despite his obvious exhaustion. He had changed out of his uniform into a pair of gray drawstring trousers and a long-sleeved black shirt made of thick, soft-looking fabric. I could see words printed across it as he rose from his seat at the kitchenette counter.

"'Have fun storming the castle,'" I read aloud as he took the takeout cartons from me. "What does it mean? Is it from a poem, or a book?"

He chuckled as he moved into the kitchenette. "It's a line from an old flatvid. _The Princess Bride_. My dad collects them. Lizzie—my sister—and I grew up on them." He set down the cartons, took out plates and silverware, and handed me a pair of forks. "This particular line is spoken by a cranky old wizard deep in a forest. He's just revived the hero of the story from near-death. The hero and his unlikely sidekicks are heading off to storm the castle of the bad guy—Prince Humperdinck, I think his name is—and rescue the hero's true love."

"A great risk for a great reward." I kept my tone light as I set the forks side by side on the counter. I knew an opening when I heard one… but I would not use it yet.

"It's a terrific story," he said as he scooped ginger chicken and pad thai onto plates. "Love triumphs, the good guys win in the end, and they all live happily ever after. It's a fairy tale, and they kind of poke fun at that whole genre of literature… but there's a sweetness to it, too. I should find a copy and we can watch it sometime. I think you'd like it."

"I would enjoy that." Out of habit, I set aside a slice of bell pepper for Valen, with the passing bittersweet thought that Sinclair had liked them. John came around the counter and sat on a stool beside me, near enough that I could feel his warmth. I liked that: the ease of it, the trust and intimacy it implied. All the more reason to be gentle with him when I said what I came to say.

We talked as we ate, of nothing in particular. Earth fairy tales, Minbari folk legends; the plays my mother used to write; the stories his father told of life in the Earth Alliance diplomatic corps. The weariness receded from his face somewhat as the evening progressed, though it was too deep to vanish entirely, or even come close. My heart went out to him, and I wanted to shake him at the same time. He was taking so much on himself, and it was so unnecessary.

He picked up the ginger chicken carton and peered into it. "You want that last spoonful?"

"No, please. I have had my share."

"All right, then." He flashed me a grin as he scraped the last morsels onto his plate.

A small silence fell. I set down my fork. "Why did you not tell me what happened on the mission? All of it?"

He looked startled, then stared down at his plate as if the remaining chicken and vegetables claimed all his attention.

"You came close to being killed," I said softly. "You would have been, if not for G'Kar's timely arrival. The _Mirilenn_ alone was not enough to have saved you."

He kept his gaze on a snow pea as he carefully speared it. "Lennier told you. I should have figured he would."

"He was convinced your deaths were inevitable. And most glad when that turned out not to be true." I leaned forward; it was hard to read his face with his head bowed. "Why didn't _you_ tell me? Did you think I would be distressed—that I could not, as you say, handle it? Surely you know me better than that by now."

He looked up, his expression stricken. "It's not that."

"Then what?"

He laid his free hand over mine. "Don't people always want to safeguard the ones they love?"

Warmth flooded my cheeks. _Love_. I had not expected that word. _I can no longer imagine my world without you in it_, he had told me some time ago… but this was more. Virtually an open declaration. I could not speak further, could only turn my hand to clasp his.

The moment grew too sweet to hold. He eased his hand away and reached for his water glass. "Anyway," he said, slightly rough-voiced from the high emotion of seconds ago. _That all-purpose word humans use as filler_, I thought, irrelevantly, and took a much-needed sip of water myself. "Lyta wrote out a report of what she did, what she couldn't do, what it felt like, everything. Must have been some trick, trying to explain her talent to non-telepaths, but she gave it a decent try. You should read it—and I have some ideas for recruiting more telepaths. We're going to need them."

"Of course." My voice sounded faint in my ears. A little more water helped restore my equilibrium, and I pushed my empty plate aside. The subject of the equal sharing of burdens, I pushed aside as well… for the moment. Though if I had my way, we would return to it again.


	34. Chapter 34

**Author's Note: **This chapter covers about two-thirds of "Grey 17 is Missing", and includes dialogue from that episode. Gapfillers and additions to on-screen scenes are my own. One other note: In order to preserve internal continuity with earlier chapters of this story about Delenn's life pre-Babylon 5, I have slightly altered her reference here to how long ago her father died. "Ten years ago" from this point in the series would be 2 years after the end of the Earth-Minbari War, rather than while the war is still raging (as I wrote in Part 10).

**Part 35—Moments of Transition**

As it turned out, it would be some time before I got my way. Two days later—days John spent buried in the War Room, with none of us able to talk of anything save the latest dispatches from the front lines—I received a call from Rathenn, asking me to return to Minbar. Sinclair's effects needed going though, and the future of the Rangers must be settled. So I made arrangements for myself and Lennier, said temporary farewells, and went home to Tuzanor.

It felt strange, arriving at the compound without Sinclair to greet me. Stranger still to see the rooms where he had lived and worked so empty of his presence. The bookshelf, stuffed full of books and scrolls when last I came here, was empty now, its contents given away. A wall hanging he had cherished, made by his mother as a gift for his first EarthForce posting, no longer graced the wall above his narrow bed. I found I could not bear to be in these too-empty rooms; I kept expecting Sinclair to turn up, smiling, and suggest a cup of tea while we talked. My face must have given me away; Lennier touched my shoulder gently and suggested that he be allowed to go through what little remained of Sinclair's things. Rathenn and I, he said, had urgent business to discuss.

Silently blessing his perceptive eye and kind heart, I left Lennier to his chosen task and followed Rathenn into the hall. We walked down it slowly, speaking of Sinclair and the Rangers. His loss was a great blow to them all, Rathenn said—including himself, from the gentle sorrow in his face. "He spoke of you often. And always with great reverence."

"Did he say anything before he left?" We had not shared the details of Sinclair's fate; but Rathenn, as his aide and as Grey Council before its sundering, might well have pieced together the whole truth. The Anla'shok in general knew only that Sinclair had gone and would not be coming back.

"He gave me his thanks," Rathenn said. "It was all he had left to give." Circumspect, as always; whatever he knew, or had guessed, he would keep his own counsel about it.

A soft footfall announced Lennier's approach. He was holding a small box, the kind many religious-caste Minbari use for our most cherished personal mementoes. With a few murmured words, he handed it to me. Inside were an Earth Alliance insignia pin, a Ranger brooch, Sinclair's medal from the Battle of the Line, a photo of himself in his EarthForce pilot's uniform. They blurred as I looked at them, and I felt my throat grow tight. "We'll see to it this is sent on to his family, Rathenn. Thank you." I closed the box and handed it back to Lennier, with instructions to take it to our ship. As he moved off, my mind drifted to the first conversation I ever held with Sinclair, in the gardens of Earthdome in Geneva so many years ago. He had mentioned a sister in Chicago, on Earth. She was no longer there; she and her family had gone into hiding when Sinclair moved to Minbar and Morgan Clark took power. His parents were on Mars, also in hiding. The Rangers could find them; it was a task well suited to the talents of the Anla'shok. I shook off the memory with an effort and turned my attention back to Rathenn.

"With the loss of Ranger One, there is one last issue to be taken care of, Delenn," he said as we resumed our journey down the corridor. "That of a replacement. The Rangers need a leader. Someone to guide and inspire them in the coming days. It is a great responsibility."

He sounded unsure of himself, which was most unlike him. "You have my absolute confidence," I told him. I trusted his judgment completely; Rathenn had begun to revive and expand the Rangers even before Sinclair came, and there was no one more dedicated to their welfare. He would make an excellent Entil'zha. "If there is anything I can do—"

He stopped and looked at me. "I was thinking more of you. The Rangers would support it." He hesitated. "Actually, I don't think they would rally behind anyone else."

Surprised, I floundered. Of all the things I had expected from our discussion, this was not one of them. "But… this is where the Rangers are being trained. My place is on Babylon Five. I cannot—"

"The Rangers were here because _he_ was here. Where you are, the Rangers will be." Rathenn paused, as if marshaling his argument. I braced myself. He was good at that. "We are coming into a critical time, Delenn. They will need you. Please… say yes."

I drew breath to protest and found I could not. "I cannot accept so quickly," I said instead. "I need to think it over… be certain it is the right course." In truth, I felt more uncertain than ever. Sinclair had spoken of me often, and with reverence, yet. Had he thought… could he possibly have meant…? If he had, it was honor beyond measure. I felt humble, and not at all sure I deserved it.

"The right thing, for the right reason." Rathenn nodded approvingly. "It is well you should think it over. But I know what I believe your answer will be. And Delenn…" He gave me a look that combined affection and worry. "Do not think too long. Time is not our friend in this. The Rangers have garnered… attention from certain quarters. We must make a decision soon."

**ooOoo**

Lennier was effusive in his praise of the idea, en route back to Babylon Five. "It is the perfect solution," he said, beaming like a small sun as we took tea together in the _Mirilenn_'s galley. "Satai Rathenn has served most ably in a supporting role, and prefers to continue that way. Of those currently on Minbar who might be entrusted with leading the Anla'shok, none has your stature among them or your grasp of what they must do. Satai Rathenn will make an excellent liaison with Ranger training operations on Minbar. And it strikes me as appropriate that at this juncture, Entil'zha should be on Babylon Five. It is, after all, the Fortress of Light. So to speak."

Excellent reasons, all. Rathenn and Lennier between them had easily dealt with my principal objection that my place was on Babylon Five. Indeed, Rathenn had expressed his opinion that Sinclair intended me to succeed him as a way of moving the Anla'shok into the next, more open phase of their operations. That Entil'zha being on Babylon Five was, in fact, the Universe's way of preparing us for that change. It all made sense put that way, and yet… "Rathenn and I are kin," I said, expressing a concrete doubt in place of the nebulous one I had not yet fully identified even to myself. "There may well be trouble if Ranger One and the principal Anla'shok liaison on Minbar are both of the Mir clan."

"I think not," Lennier replied. "You underestimate how you are seen back home, Delenn, by the many clans that support our fight against the Shadows. According to what I have heard, they do not see you only—or even mainly—as a daughter of Mir. They see you as kin to all Minbari. Or at least, they are beginning to. They remember that you were the chosen of Dukhat, the greatest soul among us since Valen." He faltered briefly, doubtless thinking of Sinclair, then went on. "Talk is beginning, in the temples and tea-houses, that perhaps you are another."

I found that thought disquieting. It would be so easy to step into such a role, inhabit it like a second skin until I forgot it was only a role—and a temporary one at that. I did not want to be a great soul, a great leader. I wanted to be myself. I wanted to love John, share a life with him and our friends. Spend my time bringing different races together, even if sometimes the endless back-and-forth of diplomacy drove me mad. That I had become a leader at all of the war against the Shadows was a function of necessity. Events had happened; someone was needed to step into the gap. My own words came back to me, the ones I had hurled at the Inquisitor so many months ago: _If I fall, another will take my place. And another, and another._ The Universe, which cherished life, would have seen to that. The other side of that coin, of course, was my responsibility to take the place prepared for me… not because I was the only one who could fill it, but because honor demanded no shirking when great need made itself clear. I smiled slightly, thinking of a saying from a human religious sage that Susan had told me of: _If not me, then who? If not now, when?_ We were more alike than we knew, humans and Minbari. Another sign that the Universe was taking care of things.

"What is it?" Lennier had seen the smile and was curious.

"Something Ivanova told me once… a saying from her Jewish tradition. Rabbi Hillel, I think it was. Very Minbari in its way."

"You see?" Lennier said as he sipped tea. "You perceive connections like that. With humans, with Narns, with Brakiri… with all the other races who have joined our cause. You see similarities where others see only differences. Which is why you can bridge them. As Entil'zha must do."

That was true enough. I settled deeper into my seat and tried to let my doubts go. If stepping into Sinclair's shoes was to be my task, I would meet it with what courage I could, and let the Universe tend to the rest.

**ooOoo**

John was delighted when I told him the news. Like Rathenn and Lennier, he took it for granted that I was the logical choice. I felt less sure—not of the logic, which I had come to accept, but of the potential fallout. Rathenn's reference to "attention from certain quarters" was not lost on me. I knew precisely whom he meant. There were those among the warrior caste who would object, some vociferously… and though my instinct to share my worries with John was strong enough for me to broach the subject, I found it beyond me to elaborate. "Who'd object?" he said, as we walked down a corridor in Blue Sector. As if the very notion was preposterous. Suddenly feeling unequal to the huge task of explaining clan and caste politics—it would take hours even to begin—all I could fall back on was the hope that we would be lucky. Perhaps the objectors would ignore this development. They had already ignored both the Anla'shok and the war quite successfully for some time. We might be fortunate, and this state of affairs would continue.

I should have known better. No sooner had John left me, with a bright smile and hearty congratulations, than another voice spoke from the cross-corridor up ahead. A voice I had last heard in the Council Chamber aboard the _Valen'tha_, condemning me as an abomination and claiming I had no home. A voice I had hoped not to hear again. "Congratulations indeed. Power beckons… and who among us is strong enough to resist its siren song?"

"Neroon." The name came out unwillingly, like a hard breath after a blow.

"A brilliant strategy, Delenn." His tone mocked me as he stepped out from the shadows, taking down the dark hood he wore. "I had not thought you capable of such ambition. Clearly, I was mistaken."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, though I knew all too well. His use of the word _ambition_ gave him away.

He took another step toward me, his voice silken with contempt. "The Rangers are commissioned after a thousand years of silence. The religious caste begins constructing new warships, without the knowledge or the consent of the warrior caste."

I broke in. "You chose not to act. Someone had to."

"Perhaps." He gave a scornful smile. "Which is why we let you have them in the beginning."

Let? _Let_? Did he even realize what he had just implied—that the warrior caste, charged with the protection of our people since Valen's time, had sat back and let the other castes shoulder their work, their responsibility, their danger, until they decided it was convenient to take over? He dug the hole deeper as he went on. "Even allowed Sinclair to train them. Even though it meant diluting their purity by allowing humans to join alongside our own people." He said _humans_ as though he meant _vermin_. "We were quite tolerant of your activities," he continued. Beyond appalled at the ugliness he was revealing, I could muster no words to interrupt. "But now their training is complete, they require new leadership. By right of tradition, the warrior caste should be given command of the Rangers. That was the law as set down by Valen. Three castes: worker, religious, warrior. They build, you pray, we fight."

Fury rose in me. He _dared_ quote the law to my face, let alone mention Valen. I kept it under control, but let it show as I responded. "You violated that law when the warrior caste became dominant in the Grey Council." _And expelled me from it without the hearing that was mine by right._

His smile grew poisonous. "But the Grey Council no longer exists. You disbanded it. So what do we have now, Delenn? You have undergone a transformation promised by Valen. Broken the Council and created a vacuum of power. And now, as an eminent leader in the religious caste, you plan to take command of a military force and fill that vacuum yourself."

The accusation—that I had engineered all this for my own aggrandizement—was so monstrous, I scarcely knew how to reply. Except with the plain truth. "I have no desire to rule our people."

"I wish I could believe you, Delenn." He didn't sound it. "But I don't. A religious zealot, propelled by prophecy into a position of military and political power? Always a bad idea." The scornful smile vanished, replaced by a deadly intensity. "Out of respect, I give you this opportunity to walk away from the path you have taken. Refuse the position of Ranger One and turn control of the Rangers over to the warrior caste. Where it belongs."

Warrior or no, he could not intimidate me. "Or?"

A harsh light glowed in his eyes. "I am sworn to stop you, Delenn. By any or all means necessary."

His final words hung in the air. So alien was the thought behind them, I could barely take them in. He had threatened me. Implied that if I did not "walk away," he would go to any lengths to stop me. Any lengths at all.

From behind me, Lennier's voice floated down the corridor. "Delenn?" Out of habit, I turned toward him. "There you are," he said as he reached me. He apparently had not noticed Neroon. I turned back and got a nasty surprise. Neroon was gone.

Lennier caught my unease and moved closer. "Is everything all right?"

It took me a moment to answer him. "No," I said faintly, and led us off the way he had come. "Not at all, unfortunately. There is something I must tell you."

**ooOoo**

Lennier was so incensed at what Neroon had said, he could scarcely contain himself. He paced around my sitting-room, face flushed, hardly able to keep his voice at a reasonable level. I let him storm awhile; for my normally unflappable aide to be so visibly distressed told me just how deep his worry ran. I had tried to persuade myself that Neroon could not possibly have meant what he seemed to, but my protestations to that effect were feeble and convinced neither of us. When Lennier inadvertently echoed Neroon's own contemptuous question—"The Council is gone, and the rules have changed. What else has changed?"—I felt a chill in the pit of my stomach that no amount of temporizing could banish.

When he demanded that I tell John of the incident, I had to draw the line. The word _no_ came out more sharply than I had meant, driven by momentary panic. If John learned of Neroon's threat, he would personally intervene to stop him… and though he was combat-trained well enough by EarthForce standards, he was no match for a hardened Minbari warrior with a wicked denn'bok and a killing grudge. Neroon would kill him without thinking twice. Given that he still saw John as Starkiller, he would probably enjoy it. He might even decide to toy with him before delivering the final blow, persuading himself that such honorless behavior was justified because it was no more than Starkiller deserved. I hid my shudder as best I could, while tossing out the first explanation for my refusal that I could think of. It even had the virtue of being true. "This is an internal matter," I told Lennier. "If we cannot handle it ourselves, then we should not be here."

The vehemence of his protest told me I had a fight on my hands. Any other time, I would have applauded it; I had spent much of the past three years encouraging just this sort of independent thinking. Right now, though, I would have given half my heart for a good strong dose of Minbari obedience. It was all the more difficult because I did not want to land on Lennier too hard; doing so would shame him, implying that I either found his concerns without merit or did not value his loyalty in trying to protect me. In the end, I had no choice but to fall back on rank and compel his promise that he would not go to John with any tales about Neroon. Or to anyone else on the station's command staff, who would in turn bring the matter to John's attention.

He gave his word most unwillingly, the habit of obedience still stronger than his sense of his own rightness. Having won my point, it was time to remind him just how much I did value him, despite our disagreement in this instance. I laid a hand on his arm—the muscles stiff with opposition he still felt, but would not express—and guided him toward the door. "Now come," I said gently as we left my quarters together. "There is still much work to do before the ceremony."

**ooOoo**

I left the many tasks still to be done in the capable hands of Lennier and several acolytes, and got back to work myself as best I could. For the next few hours, as I wrangled over terms on which this or that government might join our cause against the Shadows and hashed out with John and Susan and Marcus and Garibaldi all the implications of moving the Rangers from a thoroughly private to a more public role, I saw no sign of Neroon. I couldn't help a little frisson of anxiety every time I found myself in an empty corridor… but there were no ominous footfalls, no vanishing figures, or any other evidence of lurking threats that my mind could conjure up. After awhile, I breathed more easily. I had no doubt Neroon had meant what he said about stopping me by any means necessary… but perhaps he had thought better of it once he saw I would not be intimidated. Or perhaps Lennier had had a quiet but forceful word with him, backed by the implicit power of the Chudomo clan. They were once warrior caste, and they owed John a debt for the incident with Levell in 2259. They owed Lennier a debt as well, which he would not hesitate to use on my behalf. Or perhaps Neroon was holding back because he did not know what the Rangers would do if he moved against me. I had dropped a quiet word in Rathenn's ear and asked him to do what he could about our "internal problem"; so I knew this was possible, even likely.

Or—and this gave me pause—Neroon might have given up nothing of his intent. He might simply be waiting until the ceremony, giving me every possible chance—as he saw it—to walk away before he claimed my life.

The sheer enormity of that idea made me want to dismiss it outright. The warrior caste was certainly angry, having its grab for power disrupted along with what—to give Neroon his due—had been our tradition until the un-balancing of the Grey Council. They might be angry enough to contemplate the unthinkable in response… or Neroon might, simply because of the personal grudge he bore. Yet I couldn't make myself believe he would do it. Think about it, threaten it, use that threat as a tactic—but actually stain his hands with my blood? Be the first Minbari to kill another Minbari in a thousand years?

That would be a heinous thing. A precipice off which he would carry our entire people, by setting a monstrous precedent that could not be undone. No matter our differences—and they were profound—I could not see Neroon knowingly being guilty of that. Or being fool enough not to see it before he acted.

So I buried my worries and went on to the War Room for yet another meeting. A small one this time—myself, John, Garibaldi and Mr. Allen, who would update us on the latest efforts to recruit telepaths. Susan was off looking for Stephen, hoping to "tap in" to his network of off-the-radar telepaths so that we could approach them. I missed Stephen, both personally and because it would have helped to have him reaching out to the telepaths he had aided. Still, I felt reasonably hopeful that at least some of them would agree to help us. If Susan could find him.

Mr. Allen's report was mixed, but somewhat better than we had hoped for. As the meeting ended, Garibaldi drifted over to me. "So what's up?" he said, in the too-casual tone he habitually used when fishing for something.

"I'm not certain what you mean," I answered. Which was true as far as it went.

"Never try to kid a cop, Delenn. It doesn't work. Not even for Minbari." He was keeping his voice low, I noted; John stood in conversation with Mr. Allen just a few yards away, and Garibaldi seemed to want to keep him from overhearing. "You hide it well, but you're tense about something. And I get the feeling it's about more than your upcoming promotion. I also get the feeling you don't want _somebody_ to know, or we all would by now. You want to tell me about it?"

"No."

The bald syllable floored him for a moment. Then he recovered his equilibrium and grinned at me. "Guess I set myself up for that. Ask a stupid question… Really, though. What's going on?"

I looked him in the eye. "I prefer not to say. For necessary reasons."

He held my gaze for several seconds before he spoke again. "You in danger? Or anyone close to you?"

Later, looking back, I would consider it fortunate that I had just asked myself that same question, and concluded that the answer was no. Surely, even if Neroon intended to go as far as killing me, he would be unable to do so when it came to the point. So I could truthfully say _no_ to Garibaldi, and prevent him from telling John. Garibaldi took in my answer, then quirked an eyebrow in a way that told me he was not entirely satisfied. "Okay. I'll back off for now. I got a little problem to deal with first. But we're not done. I just want you to know that."

"Noted," I said, with a sudden rush of affection toward him despite his irritating persistence. He was so determined to protect us all, and would lay everything necessary on the line to do it. How could I not love a friend as good as that? "What is your other problem, if I may ask?"

He snorted. "Disappearing maintenance worker in Grey Sector. Allegedly. Guy probably just forgot to swipe his clock-out chip, or snuck off for a nap somewhere. I'll figure it out." He pointed a finger at me, half in jest. "And then you and I are going to have another conversation. Preferably over coffee and donuts."

He left the War Room with a jaunty wave. I glanced over at John, but he was still deep in conference with Mr. Allen. Part of me wanted to join them, just to be near John awhile, but I reluctantly decided it was not worth the risk. If Garibaldi had sensed my unease, John surely would also. And I did not want another "conversation" that risked revealing too much.

**ooOoo**

The rest of the day flew by, with no sign of Neroon. Or of Garibaldi, come to that. His investigation must be proving more complicated than he had thought. By the time John and I were together again in the late afternoon, I had just about convinced myself that the danger was past. Neroon, given time to ponder the reality of what he had threatened, could not bring himself to do the unthinkable. He would not let the matter drop, of that I was certain; instead, he would find some less abhorrent way of pursuing it. I was therefore able to meet John with a lighter heart and conscience.

His face lit when he saw me, and I counted it a blessing that he looked a fraction less tired than was usual these days. We walked hand in hand to the docking bay, discreetly tucked away on the station's starboard side, where the Rangers would arrive for the ceremony.

All who could be spared had come, along with Rathenn, who would act as chief officiant. They passed before us in pairs, bowing in greeting as they went. I recognized so many of them—kindred from the far-flung Mir clan, friends I had gone to school with, sons and daughters of neighboring clans, human and Minbari Rangers I had met at the compound near Tuzanor. Though their faces were largely sober, as befit the solemnity of the occasion, their eager anticipation was palpable. I could see it in the proud way they held themselves, the brightness in their eyes. One who passed near me—Tanivel, an old friend from our acolyte days aboard the _Valen'tha_—couldn't quite suppress a smile at the corner of her mouth. I felt humble suddenly, and almost afraid. In just a few hours they would be my responsibility, personally bound to Entil'zha by the oath they had sworn. And I would be bound to them—to guide them, care for them, and spend their lives, if that should become necessary, more dearly than I would my own. The enormity of it overwhelmed me. Was I truly meant for this? How could I possibly fill Sinclair's place?

A final trio of Rangers passed by, and then there was a lull. It would be a few minutes before the next shuttle docked and more disembarked. John stretched, then sat on a nearby shipping crate. His feet hurt; I could tell from the grunt he made when he flexed them. I sat beside him, only half-aware that I was doing so. My mind was lost in memory and reflection. Long ago, I had dreamed of being called to stand against the darkness. How little that dreaming girl knew of the reality. The fears, the doubts; the swift bright hope at the smallest of victories, the courage required to go on when there were none. Friendships forged, deep and strong; losses, when they came, all the more painful because of those bonds. And love, unlooked-for, still creating itself against the backdrop of war. All this, for a scholar's daughter who once believed she would live out her life as aide to a diplomat somewhere in the Minbari Federation, or digging up pieces of lost history from the dusty archives of ancient libraries. How had I come to this point, about to take on a leading warrior's role in a conflict I more than half-wished had never begun?

Neroon's words flitted across my mind: _A religious zealot, propelled by prophecy into a position of military and political power_. I shook off the memory, but it left its mark. It was a serious thing I was doing, embodying prophecy to save my people. And countless others besides. That I now knew who had written the prophecies made no difference to the dangers, or the weight that rested on my shoulders. I must fill this role in the right way, for the right reasons—and never lose sight within it of Delenn, the scholar's child from Tuzanor. Who was not a legend, or a great soul, or anything except herself.

"So many faces I haven't seen in so long," I murmured, half to myself. "It brings back a lot of memories…"

John must have heard the wistful note; he slipped an arm around me. "You know, you've never talked much about your life back home. You never even talk about your family…"

The word _family_ brought up a host of emotions. I could imagine them written on my face: affection, rue, longing. It was hard to know where to even begin to talk about what _family_ meant. Humans placed such store on the individual, at least from a Minbari perspective. Their idea of family was correspondingly small, generally meaning parents and their children. Often grandparents and grandchildren as well, but beyond that their kin ties were diffuse. How to describe the reality of a Minbari clan—the deep-rooted bonds of loyalty and love, right and obligation, blood and honor that made literally hundreds of us or more all reflections of each other? Tied together by a complex web of silken threads that sometimes constrained and other times buoyed up… always there, sustaining and constant as the ability to breathe? "It would be difficult to explain to a non-Minbari," I told him, then regretted it as he glanced away. He had taken my answer as a reluctance to share, and that was not what I meant. With him, I would share almost anything. I wanted him to know that.

So I told him of my mother, who had gone to join the Sisters of Valeria when I was very young. Quick sympathy crossed his face at this, despite my reassurance that it was a great honor and her own wish besides. Though as I told him that, I was not sure I believed it. _Wish_ sometimes had little to do with tradition, and there were still nights when I woke from dreams of the shattered look on her face when she first realized that she had to go from us. I missed her greatly, I confessed, thinking of child-Delenn from my recent journey through time. If she—if I—had reached my mother that day, would my mother have boarded the ship for Yedor? Would she have gone with the Sisters, or broken tradition and tried to stay, knowing the price likely to be paid?

"And your father?" John asked. From the soft affection in his voice, I knew he was thinking of his own father. Perhaps remembering that long night aboard the White Star en route to Ganymede, and the story he had shared with me about his father making rain on the roof so he could sleep.

My father was gone. The way we had parted was still a source of pain. And also still the first thing I thought of whenever I thought of him. "He passed beyond the veil some years ago. To see us making war against your people broke his heart." I did not want to dwell on the last day I had seen him, so I cast about for a memory less weighted with old sorrow. "The thing I remember about him," I said slowly, as a happier recollection took shape, "…when I was a child, he would take me with him to temple. He carried me on his shoulders, so I could see everything." I envisioned him as I spoke; tall like a redbark tree, with shoulders just the right size for a little girl to ride on. Eyes so like my own, bright with good humor in his fine-boned, clever face. "One day, I came outside with him to go to temple, and he said, 'I'm sorry, Delenn. But you are too big now for me to carry you.'" I laughed a little, remembering. He had loved me so much, and I him. When he smiled, the sun rose in my world. After my mother left, we were everything to each other. How had that gone away?

John was listening, caught up in the story. Carried along by love and regret, I found myself going on. Words I had not meant to say came pouring out nonetheless. "I realized then that my father would never again carry me in his arms. I felt such loss… And I knew for the first time that someday, I would lose him." I was speaking as much to myself as to John now, lost in the memory of that day. The sorrow I had felt, so big that I didn't know what to do with it… and the sense of connection, deep and strong, when I saw my own sadness mirrored in my father's face. "I looked in his eyes, and I saw that he was thinking the same thing," I said, haltingly, putting the anguish of that long-ago day into words for the first time. It felt almost like a _nafak'cha_, a secret I had never told anyone. "And I knew… I had never loved him more than at that moment."

A little silence fell. John's sympathy was a near-tangible thing. It drew my gaze and made my heart turn over. What if I told him how my father and I parted? Would there still be compassion in his eyes? _No mercy_, came the painful thought. Would John still love me if he knew what my father died believing, because I had spoken those terrible words so many years ago? Or would there be no mercy for me?

I searched his face for an answer. There was none, of course. Could not be, unless I confessed and took my chances. I was not ready to do any such thing, even without the war we were meant to fight together and the grave responsibility I was about to take on. I did not know, then, if I ever would be ready.

I nestled in close and tucked my head against his cheek. We sat like that for a time, arms around each other, until the sound of footsteps heralded more Rangers arriving.


	35. Chapter 35

**Author's Note: **This chapter covers the rest of "Grey 17 is Missing"; some dialogue is quoted from that episode. As always, gapfillers are my own.

**Part 36—Languages of Sacrifice**

The power of memory can be wondrous and terrible. That thought was in my mind as I slowly changed into the garments Lennier had set out for me. I had worn the simple wrap I thought of as my "battle dress" many times before… yet this time, as I put it on and then eased into the white supplicant's robe that went over it, I felt as if I were putting on far more than clothing. I was donning an identity—one that I must wear wisely for the sake of the lives in the balance. And I still did not know if I was up to the task.

My mouth felt dry, and my fingers trembled as I fastened the robe. From out in my sitting room came soft chanting and footsteps as Lennier and Rathenn prepared it for the meditation rite I would shortly undergo. A hint of incense drifted in, clean and sharp as a winter morning on Minbar. With a bittersweet pang, I thought of Sinclair. That same scent had been in the air the last time I saw him on my homeworld, among the Rangers. He had given so much—not just to the Anla'shok, but to all my people, and so many others besides. Could I give as much if the need arose? I was no great soul, as he had been. Yet he had left me this charge. I felt awed by that, as well as unsure.

For a moment, I heard Dukhat in my mind's ear: _Modesty has its place, Delenn. It keeps us from getting caught up in our own glory. But false modesty… now_ that _is just an excuse for not wanting to be bothered. Be_ _bothered about things, Delenn. Do what is before you to do, and let the Universe take care of the rest._

He had said this shortly before my investiture as Grey Council. I had risen to the occasion then; I vowed I would do so now, even though the prospect humbled and in some ways terrified me. I laughed a little, remembering the exasperated kindness on Dukhat's face as he said those words to me. It took an effort of will not to dwell on what came so soon after. This was not the time or the place for that. If only I could conjure some magic to bend space and time so Dukhat and Sinclair could have met. They would have liked each other. For all they were born under different suns, they were brothers beneath the skin.

Thoughts of them both were with me as I emerged from my bedroom. Lennier was lighting the final candle, Rathenn quietly praying. They met me three steps shy of the place where I would sit. We bowed to each other, and Rathenn spoke the first lines of the ancient rite. "In this time and in this place; in the name of Valen, and Valeria before him; may truth guide your mind, compassion your heart, and courage your soul."

He bowed again, and now it was Lennier's turn. "For there is no truth without compassion, and no compassion without courage. This we know and ever strive to live by."

"In Valen's name," I murmured, and took the place prepared for me.

The candle flame burned bright and steady, a small fragment of the light of the Universe. I watched it dance atop the braided strands of wax. Three colors: blue for faith, white for pure intent, gold for the sunlight that sustains life. I was dimly aware of Lennier and Rathenn, settling in as guardians by my door. That part of the ritual predated Valen; it was a relic of our ancient clan wars, when those ascending to leadership often needed protection from attack by rival clans. Valen had adapted it for the Anla'shok, building on existing Minbari custom to guide us toward a new way of understanding ourselves. He had been a clever teacher, guiding the Minbari, his students, to a wholly new place by using ancient traditions as stepping-stones.

_Worthy of the Jesuits you told me of, old friend_, I thought, as if Sinclair were by me to hear it. As my eyelids fluttered closed, I saw him in my mind's eye—a tall figure in EarthForce blue, walking through the Zen garden with me, smiling as he bent his head to catch something I was saying. Then the image shifted and he was bending over me in Medlab, worry in his gaze. He had risked his own life to save me from the Soul Hunter, leaving me with quite a debt to repay. By carrying on as Entil'zha in his place, I might at least begin to do it.

My mind drifted further, and the image changed again. Now I saw Sinclair prowling the corridors of Babylon Five, sweat beading on his forehead, eyes wide with terror. Two of his own had kidnapped him, made him believe he was back aboard the _Valen'tha_ at the Battle of the Line. My heart went out to him, as if I were in that place and time with him. He had been so afraid, so alone…

Caught up in my vision, I lost all sense of everything else. "I am your friend," I murmured, just as I had then, and watched the terror slowly leave his face. He had trusted me even in the depths of it. Even though I wore a wholly Minbari face, the face of his then-enemy.

My gaze locked with his. I felt briefly dizzy, as if the deck had dropped from beneath me… and then we were aboard the _Valen'tha_, Sinclair shackled into the neuro-scanner in the presence of the Grey Council. His dark eyes stared into mine, truly seeing me for the first time as a fellow sentient being. They held pain, and fear, and a fragment of hope… hope that he could make me understand. _Help me_, he begged silently. _Please._

I felt tears on my cheeks. The words _I'm sorry_ stuck in my throat; they could not begin to touch the terrible wrong we had done him. Something brushed my forehead, light as a snowflake. A comforting touch, but made by no hand. Then I heard Sinclair's voice in my mind: _Open your eyes, Delenn_.

I did so, and saw him there before me. Twin gasps came from near my door, but I paid them scant heed. All my attention was on the tall figure in the candlelight, wearing the mottled bronze robe of Entil'zha and leaning on a long staff in his hand. The same eyes, dark and kind, in a lined face. Not the face of Sinclair, the human, but the one he had worn as Valen. A Minbari face.

He sketched a blessing gesture in the air. _Go now_, he said, mind to mind. _Leave the past behind and take up what is yours to do_, _for those who went before and those who will come after_. _They are your charge now. Care for them well._ He bowed to me then, as equal to equal, and held out a hand toward my heart. I mirrored the gesture as his image slowly faded.

"Goodbye, old friend," I said softly. Then there was only the candle flame, and Lennier and Rathenn sitting silent behind me.

I took a deep breath and let it out. Leaned forward and gently blew out the candle. Wiped a last tear from my face, stood and let my white robe fall at my feet. Then I turned to Rathenn and Lennier. They looked awestruck to have shared such a vision. None of us spoke of it; it was too precious to put into words.

"I am ready," I told them instead. "Let us go."

**ooOoo**

The ritual itself I recall in flashes of memory now, most of them bright as raindrops in the sun. Lennier's presence near me on the dais at the front of the conference room we had converted for the purpose, and the quiet pride on his face as he handed Rathenn the ancient Book of Vows. Rathenn's voice, deep and sonorous as he recited the necessary prayers and took my oath of fidelity to the Rangers who would be my charge. The taste of the dark red _zidik_ on my tongue as I sipped it from a crystal goblet—bitter, oh bitter as the blood I might soon be impelled to ask others to shed. _As bitter as this will the loss of each life be, for as long as I serve_. The ancient words sank in as I spoke them, engraving themselves on my heart.

John and Susan and G'Kar were all watching from amid the crowd of Anla'shok. I could feel their silent approval even from several feet away. Likewise, that of the gathered Anla'shok themselves; it buoyed me up, warm and strong as the first spring winds in the mountains. I wondered briefly where Garibaldi was, and Marcus—it seemed strange that they were absent—but I assumed they would slip in when they could, and after the first few moments was too caught up in the ritual to notice anything else. Not until the end, when—as Garibaldi might have said—things nearly went to hell, did I learn how wrong I was… or how close we had come to tragedy.

My old friend Tanivel brought the folded robe of Entil'zha to the edge of the dais. Lennier retrieved it and gently shook it out. I stepped forward and held my arms up. Two Anla'shok joined us on the dais. With Lennier in the middle, they wrapped me in the robe. I stood motionless, accepting their ministrations as if helpless to do it myself. They would do many things for me at need, my Rangers; in turn, I must do all I could for them. As the two Anla'shok stepped down, Lennier pinned a Ranger brooch on the robe near my heart. The ritual was almost complete, with no sign of Neroon. I had scarcely spared him a thought for the past while. I had been right, it seemed; he could not harm me when it came to it. However deep his anger with me, and with the religious caste by extension, he was Minbari enough not to sully this ceremony with even the threat of bloodshed.

Rathenn's voice rose in the final acclamation. "As it was done long ago, so now we name she who will lead us. So now among the Rangers, let her be known as Entil—"

A murmur and a flurry of motion from the rear of the room made him break off. There was no time to feel fear, or anything except blank shock as Neroon pushed through the crowd toward the dais, black cloak billowing behind him. He carried a denn'bok, extended for combat. The near end of it glistened darkly with fresh blood.

Behind me, Lennier's breath caught. A small sound, but enough to tell me what he had done. _It wouldn't be Garibaldi_, I thought as Neroon glared at me from under his hood in the weighted silence. _Marcus, then…_

I felt, rather than saw, Lennier come up beside me. Neroon lowered his hood. Above his rage-filled eyes was a bright red gash on his forehead. A shiver started deep within me; it took every ounce of control I had to keep it from showing. Marcus had gotten in one good blow, at least. If Neroon had killed him…

He hurled the denn'bok down. It struck with a clang at my feet. "There is now blood between us," he said, his voice a low growl. Beside me, Lennier stiffened. "And there is blood between the warrior caste and the humans. I do not think they would die for me. But they _would_ die for you." He paused, as if working himself up for some final, virulent condemnation. "_Entil'zha_."

The title came out like an epithet. It echoed in the chamber as Neroon turned and stalked out.

Lennier bolted from the dais toward a side exit. I stared after him, willing myself not to move or cry out or show anything except stoic courage. My Rangers needed that from me now—needed to see that I would not break, that my strength was their strength.

_They would die for you_, Neroon had said. Had Marcus?

I beckoned to three Rangers standing nearest the dais. "Find Lennier and assist him," I told them quietly. "I believe he has gone looking for Marcus Cole. Your aid may be needed."

The closest of the three, a young human woman of Asian descent, briefly bowed her head. "Entil'zha," she said, and quickly left, the others following behind her.

Somehow, I found the right words to dismiss the gathering. Somehow, I managed not to give way to the emotions roiling inside me: fear and grief for Marcus, fury at Neroon, and an unexpected depth of anger at Lennier. I had told him to say nothing, and he had defied me. For which act Marcus had likely paid with his life. The still, small voice that told me Lennier went to Marcus on my behalf, to safeguard _my_ life, went unheeded for the moment. Acknowledging it would make me responsible for Marcus's fate, and I felt responsible for quite enough as it was.

"Who the hell was _that_ guy?" John sounded more than a little angry himself. He and Susan were the only ones besides me left in the conference room. "And how did he get aboard my station with a deadly weapon?"

He was speaking to Susan, I realized after a moment. "Don't look at me," she said, with equal heat. "My job is in C&C. I am _not_ down there at the passenger bays with an ID scanner and a sidearm. He probably came in on a liner or a Minbari cargo transport. Even if he had his own flyer, since when do we treat Minbari ships like potential threats?"

"All right, all right. I'm sorry." He held out his hands in a peacemaking gesture. "I just don't like it that he was able to get so close to Delenn." He looked at me then; the fear in his eyes was well controlled, but there. "He could have swung that thing and cracked your skull, so fast no one could've done a damned thing to stop him."

By _no one_, he meant himself. I could see it in his face. Through the dark curtain of my anger at Lennier, a glimmer of light appeared. At least Lennier had not broken _that_ promise, or it would be John I grieved for now.

"So who was he?" John asked again.

"Neroon. Of the Star Rider clan. Warrior caste." It was hard to get the words out. I did not mention that he had been Grey Council, nor did I bring up our mutual history. I didn't want to think about it. The room seemed cold; I drew my robe of office tighter around me. The bronze-colored silk gleamed in the ceiling lights. Its softness was a small comfort amid an ocean of trouble. Neroon _had _meant to kill me. Would have done so, but Marcus got in his way. I tried for a calming breath, but it caught in my throat. Lennier had been right. What had I wrought, breaking the Council as I did?

"Delenn?" John laid a hand on my shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"This is my doing." It came out in a whisper.

He pulled me toward him, hands on both shoulders now. "I'm sorry, but I don't see that. I know Minbari are really big on the whole collective-responsibility thing, but I do not understand how—what was it, Neroon?—how his decision to get violent and then bust in here and disrupt things is your fault."

"Because I broke the Grey Council." My voice stronger now, I looked up at him as I continued. "When I went to Minbari space, to take the Council to task for its cowardice… those of the warrior caste would not hear me. They refused to join the fight against the Shadows. So I told those who believed the prophecies, who cared for the words of Valen, who saw the truth and would not turn away… I told them to follow me. And they did." The crack of Valen's staff, breaking in my hands, echoed in my mind. "Five of the Nine came. With the ships that helped save Babylon Five from Clark's forces. Religious caste, worker caste… they followed me. But the other four…" _What else has changed_, Lennier had asked, when Neroon first appeared and made his threats. The full consequences of what I had done were too painful to put into words. John was looking stunned at what I had revealed; behind him, Susan was open-mouthed.

"You know," John said quietly after a time, "when I told you to give 'em hell, you weren't supposed to take me literally…"

It took me a few seconds to realize he was trying for humor. A strangled hiccup escaped me that might have been a laugh, or something else entirely. "Don't joke, please. It's too grave for that. No Minbari has killed another in a thousand years. Nor tried to, that I know of. Until now. And I—"

"_You_ are not at fault." He shook me gently. "Neroon and the warriors made their own choices. The results, and the blame, are on them." He touched my cheek, with a look so full of compassion it made my throat hurt. "You can't be responsible for everything, Delenn. Certainly not other people's wrong decisions. Only your own, and I can't see that you've made any in this. Would you really not have made that call, not brought those ships and your people here? Not have stepped up as Entil'zha when needed? What better choices were there?"

I covered his hand with mine. "When did you learn such wisdom?"

"When I met this Minbari lady I know." He squeezed my fingers. "She's amazing. You should meet her sometime; you'd really like her."

I couldn't help laughing a little at that. Until Susan, her face somber, said, "So who was it that got in Neroon's way?"

My brief lightness fled. "Marcus."

"God_damn_ it," Susan growled, and left the room at a dead run.

**ooOoo**

My quarters, when I reached them, were mercifully empty. Had Lennier been there, waiting, I would have given him a tongue-lashing far beyond what he deserved. With too much time to think on the way here, I had belatedly realized that I left Lennier a loophole. _I want your word that you will not tell him about this_, I had said. _Him_ meaning John… and, by implication, anyone else on the command staff, who would be obligated to tell John in turn. And so Lennier went outside the chain of command, to the one person he knew who could slow Neroon down long enough to make a difference—and who had no obligation to tell John or anyone else. Marcus's death—if he was dead—was at least in part my fault. I knew too well how Minbari could get around our sworn word, given sufficient motivation and the sincere belief that it was necessary to save life or honor. I had done it myself more than once. _I should have been more precise,_ I thought as I carefully hung up the mottled bronze silk robe and changed to everyday clothes.

I came out of my bedroom and saw the message light blinking on my Babcom unit. Not half an hour old, the message was from Dr. Hobbs, Stephen's successor in MedLab One. "Ambassador? I thought you'd want to know—your aide brought in a badly injured man a little while ago. I gather he's a friend of yours. We've stabilized his condition; you may want to come and see how he's doing."

The message ended. I stood rooted to the floor as the Babcom unit shut itself off. Marcus was alive. Neroon had not slain him. It crossed my mind to wonder why, but I swiftly shut that thought away. It didn't matter. What mattered was a fallen Ranger, and whatever I might do for him.

**ooOoo**

Lennier was there when I arrived, hovering in the doorway of the ward where Marcus lay. The look he gave me said he knew he had broken the spirit of his promise and regretted the necessity, but not the outcome. We would talk about that later, I decided as I approached. "Has he regained consciousness?"

Lennier shook his head. "Dr. Hobbs is hopeful he will. Unfortunately, she cannot be certain."

The litany he gave me of Marcus's injuries was terrible. Concussion, broken ribs, a punctured lung, contusions beyond number, a cracked femur, blood loss… He had been beaten to the point of death, and it seemed only his stubbornness had kept him alive this long.

I pinned my hopes on that stubbornness. It seemed to be all Marcus had left.

The stillness of him, stretched out on the diagnostic bed, was a weight on my heart. He hardly seemed to be breathing. I found myself praying silently: he could not die, he _must_ not die. Not this way. Not for me. _Please_, I thought, and did not know who I was appealing to.

"It should never have been allowed to happen. Not for my sake." Those words were for Lennier, though I didn't look at him as I said them.

"If not for yours, then who else?" he replied.

Surprise sharpened my response. "He could have been killed."

A moment passed before Lennier spoke again, with quiet confidence. "Delenn, all we know is that we will die. It is only a matter of how, when, and whether or not it is with honor. He did what any of us would have done."

What he said next was so unexpected, I gaped at him. "Respectfully, Delenn, I think this is the one thing about your position you do not yet understand. You cherish life. Life is your goal. But for the greater part to live, some must die."

I did not want to hear that, and looked abruptly away from him as he continued. "Or be harmed in its defense, and yours. There is no other way." He paused and seemed to gather himself; I had the sense he had not intended to be quite so candid, but did not exactly regret it, either. He believed what he had said and trusted me enough to say it. Though his words troubled me, his trust was a gift. It dawned on me then, with a fierce, hard pang, just how much I cherished it—and him, and all who might risk or lose their lives before this war was over.

"The doctors say that Marcus will recover, and that is what matters—" Lennier broke off at the sound of booted footsteps behind us. Neroon strode into MedLab and over to where we stood. The sight of him brought back all the anger I had spent the past hour and better struggling with. Beside me, Lennier tensed, as if ready to drop into a fighting crouch.

I glared at Neroon. "Have you come to finish what you started?"

His cold look matched my own. "If I wanted him dead, he would be dead."

Lennier spoke up, his tone sharp with challenge. "Then why did you stop short?"

"That is between the two of us. I would speak to him alone. One warrior to another. Then I will go."

"He will not hear you," I said, just before his meaning sank in. _One warrior to another_…

"Then I will speak briefly."

I glanced at Lennier, and saw that he had taken Neroon's choice of words the same way I had. Beaten unconscious or not, somewhere in what should have been a battle to the death, Marcus had won Neroon's respect. A mere human, daring to call himself a Ranger, daring to take on a gifted warrior-caste _alyt _for the sake of someone Neroon saw as an abomination and a rival for power… and now here was Neroon, calling him _warrior_ as if he meant it.

_May your god keep you, Marcus Cole_, I thought as I gave him one last look. Then Lennier and I left the room. We lingered in MedLab a few feet away, just in case we were wrong about Neroon's intent.

Neroon's voice was a low rumble… interrupted, to my surprise, by a soft reply from Marcus. He could barely speak, but he was managing to get a few words out. Whatever they were, they made Neroon laugh. A real laugh, as if pleasantly surprised by whatever Marcus had said.

Lennier caught my eye. "One warrior to another…" he said. Only now, with its easing, did I see the true depths of his own fear for Marcus. What little remained of my anger with him vanished. I still did not agree with what he had done, still found hard to accept the notion that anyone should be willing to die for me… but Lennier had not lightly bent his promise. As for the larger issue, uncomfortable as I found it, I had to acknowledge that he might very well be right.

"I am sorry to have caused you distress," Lennier said as we left MedLab together. "Though I cannot apologize for what I did. As, I suspect, Marcus will not."

"You did what you believed was right." Reassured that Marcus would live, I could almost manage a smile. "And next time, I will know to word things more exactly."

**ooOoo**

Much later that evening, the day finally caught up with me. Long past time for meditation and sleep, I could not settle to anything. I paced around my sitting room, tried to read, brewed a cup of tea I didn't want, tuned my doubleharp and then sat with my fingers motionless on the strings because I had no idea what to play. Eventually, I realized I was waiting for the soft chirrup of my door-chime and John's voice over the comm. I wanted to see him—no, _needed_ to see him. We had had no chance to talk over everything that had happened… and it had reached the point where my day felt unfinished if I could not talk to John about it. Especially a day such as this.

Two choices lay before me: I could stay here and wait, or go and find him. I dumped the cold tea into the sink and left.

Instinct led me to the War Room. He was there, alternately scanning a handful of dispatches and staring up at the vast map of known space that dominated the chamber. His feet were propped on a nearby railing, and he looked as if he had not slept properly in days.

"You have stubble on your chin," I said as I sat down beside him.

He blinked, startled; then his face lit up. "Delenn! I meant to come by… how late is it?"

"One in the morning. If I have your time measurements correctly."

He gave me a wry look. "You know you do. Trying to find a way not to scold me too blatantly for staying up too late?"

I laughed softly as I put my own feet up next to his. A surprisingly comfortable way to sit, this. "You have caught me. I believe this is where you promise to take better care of yourself in the future?"

Instead of joking back, he stared morosely at the dispatches. "I can't. Not until…" A shrug. "Not until." He tilted his head back and let out a long, weary sigh. "Sometimes I'm so tired, I can't see straight. But the damned war never takes a vacation day."

My sympathy was too acute for words. I took his hand. He glanced down at our interlaced fingers. "So. How are you holding up?"

"Well enough, now that Marcus is on the mend." Dr. Hobbs had called and told me a few hours ago.

He perked up. "That's great! You tell Susan?"

"Right away." She had seemed near tears for a moment, then blinked hard and muttered something about how it was "just as well; I'd have missed that pain in the ass." She and Marcus had circled around each other like a binary star ever since they met; I wondered if this incident would bring something out, or if Susan was ready to acknowledge it. Caught up as I was in my own affair of the heart, I couldn't help hoping so.

John was running his thumb across my palm, a sensation I found delightful. "Once she realized the Rangers had Marcus well in hand, Susan about tore this place apart looking for Neroon. Warrior caste or no warrior caste, I wouldn't have wanted to be him if she'd found him." His expression turned sober. "Would he really have tried to kill you? Even with all that about Minbari not killing Minbari?"

I had thought about this a great deal since leaving Neroon in MedLab. Here, with John, I felt I could voice those thoughts for the first time. "I believe he would have. And this troubles me greatly." I paused, to work out exactly how much to say; with all the other troubles on his shoulders, I did not want John to know that Neroon had approached me with threats considerably before the Anla'shok ceremony. "He was on the Grey Council. My replacement. Which unbalanced the Council by giving the warrior caste a majority. No caste has had one since the castes and the Council were formed. And of course, the warriors who held that power were not among the clans sending their sons and daughters to the Anla'shok." I stared at the starmap without really seeing it. "There have been times throughout our history when the warrior and religious castes were rivals for dominance. Always before, the balance of power in the Council checked things before they went too far. Now…" I turned my free hand palm upward, the Minbari equivalent of a shrug. "Neroon said there was blood between us. That does not bode well."

"What does that mean, exactly? I had the sense it was a ritual phrase. Or something like it."

"It is a formal declaration." My grip tightened on his hand. "Not of war or feud, precisely—but of the potential for it. A… what is the phrase? Shot across the bow?"

He let out a breath, not quite a low whistle. A common human expression of surprise or dismay. In this case, both. "I'm sorry. This has got to be the last thing you need right now."

My answer to that was to lean against him for comfort. It helped somewhat. Not enough to banish my worries, but I did feel better having shared them.

"Maybe nothing will come of it," he said after a time. "Marcus fought him pretty hard and survived. Maybe Neroon and the rest will take that into account."

"One can hope," I said. Silence fell between us again, comfortable and easy. A random thought occurred to me, and I broke the quiet. "Whatever happened to Mr. Garibaldi? I had thought he would be at the ceremony, but he never arrived."

He shifted slightly and chuckled. "Funny you should ask. You would not believe the story he told me about Grey Seventeen…"

I listened as he continued, my head against his cheek, warmed by his presence and the sound of his voice. I could stay like this forever, and the need for sleep be damned.


	36. Chapter 36

**Author's Note: **This chapter covers most of "And the Rock Cried Out, No Hiding Place". (I really, _really_ wanted to write it on through to The Kiss, but it just got too darned big…) Some dialogue is quoted from that episode. As always, additions and gapfillers are my own.

**Part 37—"Where There Is Darkness, Light"**

Ten days passed, in which the war continued to go badly. One bright spot amid the gloom was Marcus, who recovered slowly but steadily. I found a little time to spend with him nearly every day, and twice saw Susan there as well—once telling him a story from early in her EarthForce career that had both of them laughing, and another time helping him walk back and forth across Medlab. The sight of them together warmed my heart, but also made me feel oddly lonely. I had not seen much of John lately, except in official meetings or half-distracted in the War Room. He was spending so much time there, he practically lived in the place. I missed his company, worried over his health, and had no idea what to do about it. Assuming I could do anything, with the war going as it was.

Rathenn went back to Minbar, to resume his oversight of the Ranger training camps there. The Anla'shok themselves went back to their work, with all its risks and dangers. Steady streams of information came back to me from the constantly shifting front lines, yet none of it helped with the one burning question uppermost in our minds. What were the Shadows attempting to accomplish with their seemingly haphazard assaults? Where was the pattern that might show us their goal? Without that, as John said, we were forced into pure reaction—responding to each fresh outrage on our enemy's terms, with no ability to affect the situation, let alone turn it to our advantage.

Stephen was still on walkabout, and was never more sorely missed. Every new assault, every planet that fell to the Shadows or their allies, produced another wave of refugees, among them more sick and injured than any of us cared to count. Worlds near the battle lines were swiftly overwhelmed, and were often the next to succumb. Babylon Five had gained a reputation as a haven even in the farthest-flung reaches of known space; before long, our "Fortress of Light" became the preferred destination of refugee ships. Lennier and I were kept frantically busy finding other havens for the desperate and the driven—and to their credit, many among the non-aligned powers stepped up when we asked. Others needed cajoling or outright wrangling with; still others refused to extend any aid, and would not be budged.

G'Kar joined his efforts to ours for a time, and in several cases successfully appealed to those who refused Lennier or me. His selflessness impressed them; here he was, the exiled leader of a beaten people who should be focusing all his efforts on his own kind, and yet he was reaching out to help others in as bad or worse straits than the Narns. I felt humbled by, and grateful for, his courage and compassion. And I had cause to reflect yet again on how easily we judge, when often we know so little.

John spent most of this troubled time buried in dispatches and reports and a bewildering array of combat analyses, none of which brought him anywhere nearer spotting the pattern behind the Shadows' attacks. Susan told me she hardly saw him either, and what little she did see wasn't good: "He's barely eating, I don't think he's sleeping, and if he swills any more rotgut station coffee without a decent meal, he's going to burn holes in his stomach. Oh god, don't look like that—I wasn't being literal about the holes, okay?" She was pacing across the small corner of C&C that served as her "office"; it was sufficiently out of the way to permit us something like a private conversation. "The point is, he's treating himself like pure hell, and if he doesn't knock it off, he won't be able to function. Bad enough with him carrying on cranky the way he has been lately. I don't want it getting any worse." She stopped pacing and flashed me a tired smile. "I know you know all this already. I guess I just needed to vent about it."

"I wish I knew what to _do_ about it." Feeling morose, I stared down at the glossy surface of Susan's workstation. I had tried more than once to pry John out of the War Room, and on occasion I succeeded… but less and less as time went on, and lately not at all. And there was something else, something I hardly knew how to voice. It was weighing on me, though, and I had to talk to _someone_… "I have the feeling…" I began, and stopped.

Susan leaned against a section of bulkhead. "What?"

"Something is different with John now. Toward me." My hands came together; I toyed with my fingers in a vain attempt to calm myself. "I don't mean to sound dramatic… I am not saying he cares for me any less, or… or has withdrawn his affections. If it were that, I would know. But he _is_ withdrawn. Holding back. I wondered, when I first noticed it, if I had offended him somehow—but if so, he would tell me. I cannot explain it."

She gave me a sympathetic look. "I've been in the War Room when he's there and you walk in, and he still lights up like a hyperspace beacon. His feelings for you haven't changed a bit."

I spread my hands. "You see where my problem lies, then. If I do not know why he is acting differently towards me, how do I remedy it?"

She shrugged. "Maybe he's just exhausted. God knows there's enough of that going around." She folded her arms and scowled. "Man needs a vacation. And there's no way for him to get it."

"He said something very like that not long ago. About the war never taking a vacation day." I smiled a little, remembering. He had been so tired, as had I… yet simply being together, talking of Garibaldi's misadventure in Grey Seventeen, was balm for both our souls. That kind of moment had grown rare between us since the incident with Neroon, and so was all the more precious to me. "It feels as if he is building a wall and hiding behind it. But why would he do that? If his heart has not changed…" I trailed off as awareness dawned, followed by a mix of sympathy and exasperation. "Damn it," I said—very softly, so no one but Susan could hear.

Her eyebrows nearly met her hairline. "Can I ask what bombshell just dropped that would make _you_ swear? In front of me?"

I threw her a wry look. "I know what John is doing. What was the phrase you used once to describe it? 'Macho male bullshit'?"

It took a moment, but then she understood. "Oh, for godsakes! As if anybody could shoulder all this mess single-handedly…"

"And it is so like John to try." Had he been before me in that moment, I don't know if I would have hugged him or given him a good, hard shake.

"I say call him on it. Straight out. I know Minbari prefer indirection, but…"

I shook my head. "I tried that. After he and Lyta went out in the White Star to tangle with a Shadow vessel, he very carefully did not tell me how close they came to being killed." My gaze went to my shoes. "I 'called him on it' then. We did not get very far in resolving the issue." _Because he said the word _love_, and I was too caught up in that to pursue it._ But I could not share that yet, not even with Susan. I looked back up at her. "In the meantime, we are no nearer getting him out of the War Room, let alone to eat and sleep properly. Truly, Susan, I don't know what to do."

"I don't suppose you'd consider going in there dressed in a filmy negligee? Bet you anything he'd follow you out." She kept a sober face, but the glint of humor in her eye told me she was teasing.

I mimicked her expression. "Imagine the gossip. The proper and elegant Minbari ambassador, behaving in such a fashion. The station would live on it for days."

"Weeks."

"Months."

"At least."

Susan was the first to break, with a soft chuckle. "Okay, all kidding aside…" Her expression changed, as if an idea had struck. "There's a delegation coming—a group of clergy with ties to the resistance movement on Earth. Brother Theo put it together, along with a Reverend Will Dexter that Theo knows from somewhere. They'll be here tomorrow. John'll want to talk to them; he's been badgering me to find out more about resistance movements back home and how we can help. It'll make the perfect excuse for a dinner party."

"And not in the War Room."

"Definitely not."

I felt a glimmer of hope. "Let me know when they arrive. I will take care of the rest."

**ooOoo**

It was not merely the desire to get John out of the War Room for some breathing space and a civilized meal that prompted my agreement to the dinner. Since breaking away from Morgan Clark's authority, Babylon Five had only fragmentary information about conditions and attitudes on Earth… but we monitored ISN as best we could, and—as Mr. Garibaldi put it—kept our ear to the ground. What little we heard was troubling, especially to me. Clark had lost no time portraying Babylon Five's command staff as traitors to the Earth Alliance, turned toward rebellion by an "unhealthy proximity to alien influence." As if non-humans were a disease one could catch through repeated exposure. A few stories went further, portraying our "influence" as outright manipulation intended to weaken Earth… and ultimately to conquer it, though this was more often implied than stated. The very nebulousness of our reputed intentions made them all the more frightening to those who believed such tales.

In these scare-stories, I was often cast as the principal villain. Given that a mere thirteen years had passed since the end of the Earth-Minbari War, this was not surprising. I hated the thought of it, though, and it weighed on me more than I expected. Once or twice we even caught old footage from the disastrous ISN interview I had given in 2259—picked up and repackaged into easily digested news bites that portrayed me as a consummate actress, using false tears and my part-human appearance to conjure sympathy from fools. I couldn't help but wonder if Brother Theo's fellow clergy had heard the stories, and if they believed them. Best let them see me, and judge me, for themselves.

It was mid-afternoon when I heard from Susan. "I gave them a chance to rest up, and now they're with Brother Theo," she told me over the Babcom. "They want to meet you whenever it's convenient."

"I will come now." I had been poring over Ranger reports on refugees, working out the logistics of sending Minbari ships to ferry them from stressed planets to less crowded worlds, and a break was welcome. Even this one, for which I still did not feel fully prepared. I had grown used to being accepted, even liked, by most humans aboard Babylon Five. But these men were strangers, for all they were religious caste among their various cultures, and I did not know how much of Clark's propaganda they had absorbed. _Don't borrow trouble_, I told myself, quoting a maxim of John's as I bade Susan farewell and signed off. His father used to tell him that, he'd said once, whenever he worried about things beyond his control. Suddenly I wanted him beside me, to hold my hand as I faced Reverend Dexter and the others. But he was in the War Room, and would be until I dragged him out of it.

Theo's chapel was empty when I arrived. He and the others must be in the little study just beyond. As always, my steps slowed as I neared the large cross that hung on one wall. I could never see it without remembering Brother Edward, and his story about Jesus of Nazareth in the garden of Gethsemane. So gentle a man, Brother Edward, with such a violent and terrible past. He had laid down his life in the end trying to atone for it. _As this is part of my atonement_, I thought. _Saving what lives I can, to make up for those taken by my words…_

A soft footfall nearby made me look around. Brother Theo had come out of his study door and was gazing at the cross. He must have felt my scrutiny; he met my eyes and smiled, a little sadly. "Ambassador," he said.

Sudden insight made me feel for him. "You think of Edward too, don't you?"

He nodded toward the cross. "Every time I see it. Brother Edward was a good man. In spite of everything."

"He was." I bowed in respect toward the cross, and Brother Edward's memory, then caught Theo's gaze again. "They are waiting for me?"

"In here." He gestured for me to precede him through the doorway.

There were four of them, seated around the table where Brother Theo composed his homilies. Theo introduced them: Reverend Dexter, Rabbi Meyer, Imam Abdul, and Bhikku Cho, a Buddhist monk. The monk and the imam were both short and slight, the rabbi square-shaped with a jovial face. Reverend Dexter, broad-shouldered and dark-skinned, towered over the others. I had to crane my neck to look at him properly. "Ambassador," he said, in a deep, rolling voice that made me think of mountains. His expression was neutral; I had the sense that he, and the rest, were taking my measure.

_Well, then. Measure away_. I bowed, a dip of the head and shoulders that showed respect for presumed equals. "I am honored to meet you. We are very glad you came. Captain Sheridan has looked forward to it."

"Are you speaking for the captain, ma'am?" Reverend Dexter asked. A simple question, but with much behind it.

I permitted myself a smile. "There is no need. Captain Sheridan is more than capable of speaking for himself. As you will find out later on, if you will be so kind as to dine with us this evening." I glanced at Brother Theo. "Perhaps we may use your study? Commander Ivanova or I can easily make the necessary arrangements."

Theo bowed his head. "I should be delighted, Ambassador."

"Theo was just telling us about your situation up here," Reverend Dexter said. "He says there's a war on. And it's not going so well."

"Yes. To both, unfortunately. Which claims a good deal of Captain Sheridan's time." I shook off the gloom induced by these thoughts as best I could. "In the meanwhile, I am happy to answer any questions you may have. Or it can wait until later, when we are all together."

Reverend Dexter regarded me a moment. Then he smiled, an expression of extraordinary warmth. I knew then that my fears were nothing. In less than two minutes this man had judged me a friend, and the others would follow his lead.

"Thank you for the offer, Ambassador," he said. "But Theo's told us enough to get on with for the moment. The rest can wait till there's food and drink to go with it."

"God in heaven, the man paid me a compliment," Theo said. Behind Reverend Dexter, I saw the other three clerics exchange amused glances.

Dexter turned his smile on Brother Theo. "Now Theo, I've always said you were a fine fellow for a stuffy old priest."

"Stuffy," Theo repeated, and folded his arms. Beneath his mock annoyance I caught a spark of enjoyment. Clearly, this was a game they played. I felt a smile tug at my lips. Reverend Dexter caught it; he raised an eyebrow at me, with a look that said we were on the same side of something. He knew I had worked out their game, and seemed pleased by it.

We set the time for dinner, and I took my leave of them. Rather than face the complicated logistics of refugee ships again, I decided to change clothes and seek John in the War Room. I would not, as Susan had jokingly suggested, wear a negligee to lure him out… but it couldn't hurt in persuading him for me to look my best.

**ooOoo**

It took some doing, and a plea that my personal honor was at stake, but in the end John agreed to come to dinner. If he did not show up, I thought as I left him, with a light-hearted word ("Grouch") thrown over my shoulder, I would be here again to drag him out by the ear. Fortunately, this did not prove necessary. (If it had, I would have earned his mock characterization of me as a "pain in the butt." Though I would not have cared, so long as it got him out of the War Room for awhile.)

Tense and fidgety when dinner began, John visibly relaxed as the evening wore on. Little was said of serious business as we ate; as Brother Theo put it, there was no sense ruining a fine meal by giving ourselves indigestion while consuming it. I kept mostly silent, watching and listening as the others traded stories of places on Earth they knew or colonies they had visited. Most often, I watched John. It did my heart good to see him unwind, even a little. The burden of the war seemed to lighten a bit as he ate and talked, and I found myself grateful to Theo and the others for bringing him this respite. It was more than I had been able to do for the better part of two weeks.

At length, the meal ended and our talk turned more serious. Reverend Dexter picked up a thick book, which had rested next to him while he ate; I recognized a copy of his tradition's sacred writings. He opened it, and to my astonishment pulled out a small case full of data-crystals. The book had been hollowed out to make room for it. Between them, he told us as he handed it to John, he and Meyer and Abdul and Cho, and many others, had culled government communications, as well as transmissions from Earth's underground. Now it was ours, to do with as we would.

"So the resistance is still alive back on Earth?" Susan asked. I had not heard such hope in her voice for some days; the war was clearly weighing on her too, far more than I realized.

"The resistance is very much alive," Dexter said. "It's all there."

She sobered as she gazed at the case. "What do they say about us back home?"

This time it was Rabbi Meyer who answered. "That you're renegades. Pirates, a bunch of traitors working with aliens against Earth."

I flinched at the word _aliens_, even though I knew from his manner that Rabbi Meyer did not share the ugly beliefs he spoke of. I have never understood the need some have to hate that which is different, for no other reason than the difference itself. My own people are not immune to this, though we of all sentient races ought to know better. Minbari like to say we revere all life, as expressions of a conscious universe trying to work itself out—yet that value, so central to our view of ourselves, was lacking enough in us that we nearly destroyed the entire human race over a tragic misunderstanding. How then should humans under Morgan Clark have been any different, frightened and lied to as they were? Still, it was sobering to realize that it was not only the Shadows we were up against. Our truest enemy was hatred, fueled by ignorance and fear. Weaknesses the Shadows were all too eager to exploit. And even if the Shadows did not exist, such hatreds did, and would remain.

Susan was speaking again. "You took a big chance bringing this to us. What if they would've been right about us?"

Reverend Dexter leaned across the table. "I'd rather take a chance and do something than be frightened into doing nothing. That's the problem back home. Folks have been conned into thinking they can't change the world; they have to accept what is." His voice deepened with the passion of his argument. "I'll tell you something, my friends. The world _is_ changing, every day. The only question is who's doing it."

"We're trying to do a little of that ourselves," John said. He picked up his water glass and stared briefly into it, then met Reverend Dexter's eyes with a faint smile. "With your help, maybe we can do a little more."

Brother Theo raised his own glass in a sober toast. "Let us hope."

**ooOoo**

I stayed up far later that night than I should have, going over Ranger reports yet again and sorting through my impressions of the evening. Reverend Dexter particularly intrigued me. He was a forceful personality, a walking bundle of contained energy in stark contrast to Brother Theo's serene decorum. _In general, anyway_, I thought, unable to restrain a chuckle at a memory of Theo's indignant reaction when John beat him at chess once. The sound of my door chime interrupted my thoughts, and for a moment my heart leapt with the hope that it might be John. But the voice that answered my query was Reverend Dexter's: "Mind if I come in, Ambassador? I'd like your thought on something."

I invited him in and offered him tea, which he accepted. "What was it you wished to ask me?" I said, once we had seated ourselves with steaming cups.

He gazed at his cup, a small and delicate thing cradled in his large hands. Then he looked at me, as if he could see clear through to my soul. "You love him a lot, don't you?"

I did not have to ask who he meant. Nor did I even think of not replying. "More than anything."

He swirled his tea gently. "I've seen it before, what Sheridan's doing to himself. Happens in war a lot. The men and women who make the decisions get so caught up in their own responsibilities, they forget there's anyone else there. Anyone to share the burden with."

I knew that too well. "I have tried…" I began.

He smiled as if to reassure me. "I'd guessed that, from how you were with him at dinner. And he with you, whenever he forgot that he's supposed to be the Man in Charge."

I could hear the capital letters in his voice. It made me laugh, despite the seriousness of what we were discussing. "He does have a small problem in that area. He takes on so much…" A sudden pang made my throat ache. "And that is part of why I love him, I suppose."

"If it's all right with you…" Reverend Dexter said slowly, as if feeling his way, "I could say a little something to him. He needs some time away from it… the war, the weight of command, everything. I'm guessing you're not the only one who's told him so—but sometimes, people don't hear a thing well from folks they're close to. Especially when those folks are the ones whose burdens _they're_ trying to ease." He sipped tea. "Sometimes it takes a stranger to get through."

Surprise, and a flare of hope, made me set my cup down quickly before I spilled it. "Would you? I cannot tell you how much I would be in your debt if—"

He shook his head. "No debt. You all are doing God's work up here. Least I can do is help it along."

**ooOoo**

Whatever he said to John, it worked. The following day, when a break in my own duties permitted me to seek John out in the War Room, he seemed eager to have me stay. He spoke of things freely that up until now he had kept to himself: difficulties of strategy, attempts he had made to work out the Shadows' objectives, his fear that he was—as he said—barking up the wrong tree. (He then had to stop and explain dogs to me, as I had thus far heard only his stories about Earth house cats and so had no frame of reference for their canine counterparts.)

High hopes of being useful to him sustained me through the first hour of poring over tactical analyses, looking for patterns. Sheer stubbornness kept me going through most of a second. By the start of my third straight hour in the War Room, I was reduced to slumping next to my exhausted (again) beloved and staring fixedly at the wall-sized star map. Try as I might, I could make no more sense of it than a gokk would of interstellar physics. I felt, in a word, crotchety. "You're right," I muttered at length. "There is no pattern to the Shadow attacks. No pattern _at all_." It galled me to say so, all the more because I was certain there must be one. Why then was it not apparent after so much effort to discern it? Had I become stupid and never noticed until now? "I'm sorry. I wish I could see it."

"That's okay." John didn't move from where he sat half-stretched out in his chair. "Sometimes it's just nice to have the company."

He sounded as if he meant more than those simple words. My crotchety mood evaporated like fog in sunlight. Suddenly, I felt—well, _eager_ was an overstatement, but willing at least—to give our endeavor one more try. At least we were sharing the burden now. Discouraged or not, that counted for a great deal.

We got up and crossed the room toward a bank of smaller screens that were frequently used for tactical displays. For what must have been the hundredth time or better, John asked for a three-dimensional grid showing all the Shadow attacks in sequence. I focused on it hard enough to melt holes in the circuitry. _Nothing_, I thought… and then, just for a moment, something. A glimpse only, so swift I could not be sure—

Beside me, John tensed. He had seen it, too. I reached toward the screen, tracing the outline of the shape I thought I perceived. Full attack data, when requested, confirmed our suspicions. There was a gap, an empty sector in the middle of the Shadows' assaults. A large one. They had gone some distance out of the most logical attack path in order to strike planets on the far side. "Why?" John wondered. "Why leave it alone?"

A chill crept up my spine. All the reports from the Anla'shok, tracking refugees… "The Rangers say that many refugee ships fleeing the war have been heading toward this area of space because so far, it hasn't been attacked."

John looked grim. "What if they wanted to drive the refugees into one area—corral them—make it easier to hit them all at once?"

The very idea was abhorrent. The effect would be devastating, I told him. Demoralizing.

He seized on the word and nodded. "That would be their intent. Maybe this is as much about terror as it is about territory." His own people, he said, had used such tactics against each other during different wartimes in their history: "Hiroshima, Nagasaki. Dresden. San Diego." The thought of it made me physically ill, a reaction I was hard pressed to conceal. What he said made a terrifying sense, much as I wished otherwise. Caught by the horror of it, I scarcely heard my own reply. Or his, until four words—"It's what I'd do"—broke through and shocked me to the bone.

"_What_?" I could not believe he had said such a thing. Considered himself capable of such depravity even for a second.

The slight frown on his face showed puzzlement, apparently at my reaction. That shook me as well. Had he not heard his own words of a moment ago? Could he have failed to understand them? "Well…" he said, and shrugged, "if I were the bad guys—_if_ I were them…" He paused, as if searching for some way to translate the incomprehensible. An incomprehensible that he found self-explanatory, to judge by his tone and body language. "The only way we're going to beat them is to think like them," he said finally.

"Think like them?" Worse and worse. Reverend Dexter, and Susan, and I, had been more right to worry than we knew.

"Yes," he said—again, as if it were obvious. And, as humans say, no big deal.

I had heard enough. "_No_." I grabbed his arm and started moving us toward the door. "You will come with me."

He resisted at first, though mercifully it was half-hearted. I didn't want to exert my full strength—it would leave bruises, and shame him besides—but I would if I had to. "We just figured this out," he said, as if that would make any difference. He needed out of the War Room, at least for a few hours, and in his heart he knew it. He soon gave up physical resistance and settled for verbal protests, which I paid as much heed as they deserved. "Yes, John," I said, like a mother quieting a noisy child. "Of course, John, whatever you say, John." And then we were out, and I felt as if we could both breathe freely for the first time in over a week. I kept tight hold of him as I pulled him into the lift. "There," I said as the doors slid shut. "It is a start."

The scowl he gave me was not convincing; his lips kept twitching, as if he were trying not to laugh. So long as we were out of there, I didn't mind if he amused himself at my expense. "So where are we going?" he said.

I moved closer, but spoke in a tone that brooked no opposition. "We are going to your quarters, where you will shower and then nap for at least an hour. Then we will see about food, and after that we will attend Reverend Dexter's gospel service. And then you are going back home and to sleep. All night."

"By myself?" he said, too innocently.

It took a moment for his meaning to come clear. Then I felt my face grow warm. "John Sheridan. Don't try to get round me. There's no point. You are going to shower, and rest, and eat, and be somewhere other than the War Room at least until tomorrow. There is nothing left to be said."

His eyes sparkled. "If I told you you're cute when you're mad, I'm guessing you'd hit me."

I gave him a look, mock anger through slitted eyes. "Don't tempt me."

"Okay," he said, suddenly meek. He leaned against the back wall of the lift and let out a sigh that held all the weariness of a hundred sleepless years. Then he pulled me to him and rested his cheek on the top of my head. "Ow," he murmured, and shifted slightly so that the tip of my bone crest was no longer poking him. "Forgot about that."

I could feel how tired he was. I hugged him gently back, doing my best to smile up at him without moving my head. "Every relationship has its drawbacks."

"S'okay." He sounded half-asleep standing up. "I'll take this one anyway."

"So will I." _Forever and ever and always_…

We held each other in silent contentment until the lift doors opened near our destination.

**ooOoo**

He tried to leave me at his door, arguing that he could perfectly well shower and nap without aid, but I was having none of it. "I am going to make sure you do as you are told."

"You don't trust me?" he said as he punched in his entry code.

"Not in the slightest, when you think you are needed somewhere." The door swung open, and I gently pushed him through it. "In. Shower. Time to relax. I will stay until you are asleep." The thought of watching him in slumber crossed my mind—a delicious, half-guilty pleasure—but an hour's nap hardly counted toward the watching ritual, and I had pushed the boundaries of that quite enough as it was.

He stopped in the middle of his sitting-room. "What are you going to do with yourself for an hour?"

"You have books. I can surely find something with which to entertain myself."

"I'm being nursemaided," he grumbled, but obediently headed toward his bedroom.

"Yes, you are." I raised my voice as he slid the bedroom doors shut behind him. "And I expect to hear that shower in the next five minutes."

I wandered over to the laden bookshelf, keeping an ear out for the sound of running water. John liked print volumes and had several of varying sizes, on an eclectic array of subjects: jump-gate physics, Earth history from various periods, the origins of baseball. My hand hovered over that one—John loved the game, and I thought I should learn more about it—but I felt more inclined toward poetry, or perhaps a story of some sort. He had a sizable collection of fiction, and I amused myself for another minute or two scanning titles, until it dawned on me that there was no sound of the shower running.

I turned toward the bedroom and called his name. There was no answer. Exasperated, and a touch concerned, I went to the doors. "John?"

Still no answer. Was he all right in there? Worry outweighed any other considerations. I opened the doors and went in.

He was lying down, snoring gently. He had gotten his boots off before succumbing; they sat on the floor next to his bed, one upright and the other tipped over. His face in repose was open, innocent, vulnerable.

I had to make myself look away. A slow count in my head, eyes fixed on a framed photograph of the planet Jupiter that hung on the wall, restored some self-control. At the foot of the bed was a folded coverlet, hand-woven from thick strands of colored yarn. I shook it out and laid it over him, smoothing it across his shoulders and chest. The temptation to touch him further was too strong to resist. I laid my hand against his cheek. He murmured and turned toward it, but did not wake.

Without giving myself time to think, I leaned down and kissed his forehead. Then I left the room, closing the doors behind me.


	37. Chapter 37

**Author's Note: **This chapter finishes off "And the Rock Cried Out…" and goes partway into "Shadow Dancing" (there's just too much action to squeeze in one episode per story part anymore…). Some dialogue is quoted from those episodes; as always, additions and gapfillers are my own.

**Part 38—Before the Storm**

I let him sleep for nearly two hours. A cup of strong coffee, a bowl of soup and a sandwich at a diner recommended by Garibaldi completed John's "rest cure"; by the time we made our way to Brother Theo's chapel for the service, he looked almost like his old, unburdened self. I had not seen such a lift to his step, nor such brightness in his eyes, for far too long. Reverend Dexter saw us as we entered, and his welcoming smile widened. "You're looking better, Captain, if you don't mind my saying so."

"I had some sense knocked into me," John answered with a wry grin, and led me to our seats.

The gospel service was thoroughly enjoyable, if far more exuberant than any Minbari religious rite. The singing was joyfully contagious, prompting ecstatic responses from even the most staid of those in attendance. What stayed with me most, though, was not the music, beautiful as it was. Nor Reverend Dexter's sermon, despite the truth in every word. It was the effect of the service on John. As he sang, and prayed, and simply stood and listened, he drew new strength from the simple fact of being there. Of being surrounded by people, sharing sacred time and space, mindful of things of the soul. I knew he believed in a God—we had talked of such things more than once, over cups of tea or in the Zen garden. I knew also that he espoused no formal religious tradition, though he had been raised in Brother Theo's Catholic one and respected many others besides. "I don't really know what God is," he'd said once, half-laughing at himself. "I don't think any one person does. I just… have this feeling that Something out there gives a damn. Somehow, some way, for some reason I can't fathom."

Here, now, amid the joyous singing in Brother Theo's chapel, I saw him remembering that Something. Whatever his God was—the conscious Universe, a caring Creator spirit—it was there for him. As we all were for each other, in service to the love that binds the very stars together. He could lean on that when he could lean on nothing else. It was so easy to forget this truth, but in the chapel he remembered. I saw the renewal it brought him, and felt grateful beyond words.

I walked him home afterward, just to be certain he took no detour to the War Room. "I'm sorry," he told me with a sheepish look. "I've been shutting you out, and I shouldn't have. I know it was stupid, but—well, you just took on a whole new responsibility with the Rangers, and then that guy Neroon showed up and would have tried to kill you if Marcus hadn't gotten to him first, and then you were worried to death over Marcus, and I know you blame yourself for that whole thing, because you do that even when you shouldn't, and… well, it just seemed like you had a lot to deal with. I guess I was trying to spare you a little."

"But I do not want to be spared." I squeezed his hand. "It does not spare me anything to watch you struggle all alone and not be allowed to help. No matter what other responsibilities I have. It helps _me_ to help _you_. Don't forget that."

"Reverend Dexter told me the same thing." He chuckled. "Whapped me over the head about it pretty good, in fact." I must have looked startled; he laughed outright, a carefree sound that delighted me. "Verbally, not literally."

We had reached his door. He made no move to punch in the entry code. Instead, he turned to face me. "I'm so glad you're here," he said, cradling my hands in his. "I don't say that enough. But… it's everything, to know you're here for me. To shake me out of myself when I need it, to back me up when I falter. To share with no matter what. To be there, always." His voice dropped lower. "There are no words for what that means to me."

We were standing so close, I could feel his breath on my lips. Time seemed frozen; neither of us moved. Then he blinked and stepped slightly away. I became very interested in the blue stripe on the wall. _Not yet_, I thought, and did my best to discipline the wild longings of my heart.

He raised my fingers to his lips, then let me go and keyed in his door code. "See you tomorrow," he murmured as the door swung upward, and ducked inside.

I wandered away, feeling wistful. I wished he had kissed me, yet I was also happy at our renewed bond of soul. The depth of his trust was a gift beyond price. I would honor it always, I told myself. Always and forever, until the end of time in the place where no shadows fall.

I did not know, then, how soon I would break that promise.

**ooOoo**

Two days later, I finally received the word I had been waiting for. The White Star fleet was ready, and gathered at the rendezvous point. My first impulse was to run to the War Room, the courier's report in hand. Then I thought better of it. This was a watershed moment, a turning point in our fortunes. I should present it properly—and it offered a good excuse to take John out of the War Room, before he got in the habit of burying himself there again.

John was grouchy, and difficult to pry loose. News of the latest battles was dismal, and once again he was struggling with despair. "I feel like a fraud," he told me, crumpling the offending dispatch in his hand. "No matter what we do, we can't beat them back. Not with the Vorlons on the sidelines again. Knowing the Shadows' goal doesn't help worth a damn without the firepower to take them on." He stopped, and seemed to truly notice me for the first time. "Why are you in battle dress? Are you going somewhere?"

I smiled at him. "_We_ are going somewhere. Right now."

His frown cleared, and he dropped the dispatch on the table as if glad to be rid of it. "Where? What for?"

"All in good time." I took his hand and led him toward the exit.

"I hate it when you do that," he groused, though mostly for appearance's sake. I had become quite proficient by now at discerning mock annoyance from the real thing; he enjoyed this sort of playacting, and often used it as a pretext for banter.

I was happy to play along. "Patience is a virtue," I told him as we stepped into the lift. And he got no more out of me on the subject until we were aboard the White Star, arrowing through hyperspace.

"I wish you would tell me what this is about, Delenn," he said finally as we walked onto the bridge. He had demonstrated exemplary patience over the past hour, and I was tempted to reward him with the information he sought… but the thought of his face at the moment of revelation was too tempting to pass up. For that, he could wait a few minutes longer.

"It's a surprise," I said. Ignoring the eye-roll he favored me with, I led him past the empty command chair toward the forward viewports. "Now that we know what the Shadows have in mind, we have an advantage for the first time. We can rally all the other races and prepare to launch a major counterattack." We were nearly there; try as I would, I could not keep the brimming excitement out of my voice. "I thought you might like to know what resources you have."

I gave the order and we dropped out of hyperspace. I knew what we would see, spread out all around, and kept my eyes on John.

He looked stunned as he took in the sight: hundreds of White Stars hanging in space, gleaming and beautiful. Each with a crew of Anla'shok, ready and willing to go into battle. As the deeper implications sank in, he seemed to stand taller. The weight that had lain on his shoulders for more months than I cared to recall receded like frost at dawn.

I gazed out at the fleet, reveling in the moment myself. I had seen them so arrayed at the shipyards, but it was different seeing them here. "The White Star was never intended to be one of a kind. It was only the first. We have been working around the clock to construct them. I said we needed time to prepare; this is why. The first wave of ships is finished at last. The Rangers will pilot them under our shared command." Saying it gave it reality that mere knowledge of it could not. Fierce joy shot through me, sudden and bright as a shaft of light through storm clouds. "We are as ready for them as we will ever be. We finally have, as you say, a fighting chance."

He turned to me, eyes shining as if I had offered him a miracle. The giddy thought came that perhaps I had. "I don't know what to say."

His happiness was transcendent. It drew me in; I needed to be closer to it, to him. I touched his cheek, let my fingers wander near his mouth. A lover's touch, unmistakable. This was the moment; I could feel it, strong and deep as music. _The music of our hearts_… "Then say nothing."

His face spoke his heart more clearly than words. He kissed me then, lingering and sweet… and for the next little while, there was nothing in my universe but the taste of his lips and the warmth of his body against mine.

**ooOoo**

We stayed together for the rest of that day and well into the evening. Piles of work awaited us both, but neither of us cared. We were lost in the wonder of each other and would not be parted.

We rambled awhile through the station gardens, halting every few minutes in secluded spots to hold each other and kiss. Then a timeless hour on the observation deck, gazing at the starscape in the circle of each other's arms. At some point hunger made itself felt and we found a place to dine. I remember nothing of what we ate, only the way the light fell on John's hair and the warmth of our clasped hands across the table. We laughed at everything, whether funny or not. War or no war, my joy in him that night was unleavened by sorrow. Had I known how brief that idyll would be, I would have cherished it all the more.

We finally parted at my door, with a slow kiss that left me breathless. My meditations, when I finally settled to them, were full of John: his scent, his touch, the softness of his lips on mine. We had truly become _shanmai_, on the road to being lovers. I imagined us taking the next step—me in his quarters, watching him sleep—and actually blew out my candle and started to get up before I caught myself. We were in the midst of war, with a devastating Shadow assault on innocents to forestall. And, just possibly, a victory to win. To put my own desires ahead of that was selfishness of the highest order. What we had of each other in this moment was enough; the Universe would show me the right time to seek more. _If we are given time_, came the treacherous thought. I fought down a stab of fear. _Trust in the Universe, Delenn. If it is meant, it will be…_

Slowly, calm returned. I gazed at the snuffed-out candle with a twinge of regret, then rose and made my way to bed. The memory of that kiss aboard the White Star was enough to send me to sleep with a smile on my face and a pleasant ache deep inside. Despite that, my dreams were strangely unsettled. I recalled little of them when I woke, save for a woman's voice and the sound of shattering glass.

**ooOoo**

The next forty-eight hours passed in a blur of frantic activity. We knew the Shadows' objective now, and we had—just possibly—the firepower to counter them. What we had little of was time. There was no way to know precisely when the Shadows would launch their assault on the refugees who had fled to Sector 83—the area of space our enemy had so carefully left alone. We had to come up with an attack plan quickly; one that had the best chance of working without our knowing precisely how many enemy ships we would face, and that we could execute rapidly without alerting the Shadows to our intentions.

We confined the planning to the core of the War Council—myself and John, Lennier, Garibaldi, Susan, Marcus and G'Kar, with what input we could get from Lyta on the most efficient use of telepaths to slow the Shadows' capital ships. Including her was difficult; the Vorlon kept her close, apparently regarding his own need of her services as infinitely more important than anything we younger races might be doing. The one time she came to the War Room, she looked exhausted and ill. "I'm fine," she said, waving me off when I inquired. "Let's just get this done. I need to get back." Back to the Vorlon, she meant, before she was missed. I felt keenly for her, and anger at the Vorlon burned high in me. Lyta deserved better. She was loyal and brave and generous; if the Vorlon could not see that and value it, then he was no fit representative of his people aboard this station. Not that I could do anything about that. I couldn't even help Lyta unless she let me.

Before she left that first day, I stopped her with a touch on her arm. "I do not know what I can do for you," I told her, "but if there is anything… you have only to ask. Please don't hesitate. We are here, and I want you to know that."

Her hand covered mine briefly, light as a breath. "I know. It's just… complicated right now."

"Still." She looked ragged, as if nervous tension and fatigue were consuming her from within. Part of me wanted to bundle her onto a White Star then and there, with orders to take her to Minbar and hide her away in Tuzanor until she recovered herself. "Call on me if you need to. Or on any of us. You are not alone."

She let out an unsteady breath. "I'll try to remember that," she murmured, and turned away.

By the time we finished our battle plan on the second day, it was well past midnight. John and I were the only ones left in the War Room, the others all having sensibly gone to their quarters to sleep some while ago. My eyes felt coated in fine sand, my every muscle heavy as a black hole. John was reading the plan we'd drawn up for what must have been the fiftieth time, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. "This is as good as it gets," he said, over a cruiser-sized yawn. He shook himself and turned toward me with a tired smile. "Lucky you. You get to go out and sell this thing to our non-aligned allies tomorrow."

I smiled back. "As you say, lucky me." I pulled out a chair and sank into it, too tired to stand any longer. The idea of laying my head down on the conference table was tempting, even though the metal surface would be cold and hard. "I wish we could tell them more. A most un-Minbari thought, I know—but it would save some trouble."

He chuckled softly, then sobered. "We can't take the risk. We have to assume the Shadows have spies around. They get wind of this, it'll all be for nothing. Safest to say as little as possible."

I sighed. "We will have trouble with some of them anyway. I can even tell you which ones."

"Trkider," he said, meaning the Drazi ambassador. "He'd be first on my list. I still haven't figured out if all Drazi are like that, or just him. He likes throwing monkey wrenches into things, apparently for the fun of it. Or maybe just stubbornness. I don't get it."

"Monkey wrenches?" I had a sudden, bewildering vision of small Earth primates wielding miniature hand tools.

John laughed and described what they were, then explained the origins of the expression. We fell into a comfortable silence. Then he spoke again. "We'll need a scout ship. Somebody to keep an eye on Sector 83. We need to know the second the Shadows show up."

"You have someone in mind?" Though I could guess even before he replied.

He nodded. "Susan and Marcus. Susan's the best I know at keeping a level head in a tough spot, and Marcus is no slouch either. Plus, I agree with you about using Lennier as liaison to the _Dogato_. With Marcus along on the scout mission, Susan won't need Lennier to play translator."

I concurred with his judgment. The _Dogato_ was a Minbari cruiser, a clan ship of the Chudomo. As a member of that clan, Lennier was uniquely placed to take on the vital liaison's role, thereby serving as a living symbol of just how much the Chudomo contribution to the war effort was honored. Subtleties like that were ingrained in the way Minbari dealt with each other, even when we were wholeheartedly on the same side; they came to me as naturally as breathing. John, I think, was somewhat bemused by them; he understood personal politics to an extent, but my people had raised it to an art beyond his need or desire to grasp.

He was looking troubled, staring again at the flimsy that contained our battle plan. I laid a hand on his wrist. "What is it?"

"I just…" He sighed. "I hate the odds. That scout's going to be a big, fat target, and they'll have an armada after them. Whether they make it to the main fleet to join the fight is a fifty-fifty shot at best."

"You wish you did not have to send them," I said quietly, stroking his arm.

The smile he gave me held no gladness. "The curse of the CO. You never want to send anybody into harm's way. Especially when you have to."

I leaned against him in wordless sympathy. He slipped an arm around my shoulders. Neither of us said anything for a time. I knew whereof he spoke; I had been Entil'zha for perhaps two weeks, and already I had learned to dread sending my Anla'shok into danger zones. There was nothing for it, though. Nothing but to bear the same hazards as they, and risk others' lives as sparingly as the realities of war allowed.

It slowly dawned on me that I was falling asleep where I sat. I forced myself upright and eased the flimsy from John's grasp. "I should go. And so should you. There is a great deal to do tomorrow, and we will both need clear heads."

"Isn't that the truth." He stretched, then rose from his chair. Instead of turning toward the door, he lingered by the table, his eyes on the star map that covered the far wall. "There's just one more thing," he said. "And you're not going to like it."

I felt a twinge of anxiety. "What?"

He drew in a breath, then faced me. "I think you should stay here."

Surprise as well as instinct spurred me to protest, but he held up a hand. "No, Delenn, hear me out. Susan and Marcus will be gone on the scouting mission. I'll need Lennier with me on the _Dogato_. G'Kar's likely to insist on being aboard the _G'Tok_, and even if he isn't, he'll have his hands full just managing the Narns on-station. Stephen's still on walkabout, God knows when he'll be back, and the Vorlon practically has Lyta in a cage. That leaves Garibaldi holding the baby, and he's up to his ears already. Somebody else who's in charge of this damned war really needs to be here to hold the fort. There's no sense risking both of us out there."

Brief silence descended as I sorted through possible responses. "You are still doing it," I said finally, gently.

"Doing what?"

"Trying to spare me."

He frowned. "Oh, come on, now—"

"No. You are. There is no shame in acknowledging it." I moved closer to him, close enough to read the anxiety in his eyes. "You have done a very good job of coming up with valid reasons for keeping me out of the battle zone. But that does not change your desire. So now let me give you some equally valid reasons why you need me out there." I raised a hand and ticked them off on my fingers. "One—you will need to direct the battle from the _Dogato_. You have never done that from a Minbari cruiser; you will need someone to help you who is familiar with the procedure. Two—you cannot direct the entire battle alone. We know how large it is likely to be; too large for one person to track. So you will need help, and you will need split-second communication with whoever aids you. That person must be someone you know and trust well enough, and who knows and trusts _you_ well enough, for that kind of communication to occur. Anything else will put the lives of those fighting at greater risk. Three—suppose things do go badly, and we lose. What do you think the Shadows will do next… and how safe will I be here then?"

He stared at me for a long moment. I saw in his face that he wanted to challenge what I had said, but couldn't. Finally, he let out a sigh. "Damn it. I hate it when you're right."

"No," I said softly. "You hate it when I am right about needing to risk myself at your side. Because you wish I did not have to. But I do."

He took my hand. "I just…" He pulled me close then, in a hard embrace. "I get scared sometimes," he whispered, his voice muffled against my hair. "Scared something will happen, and I'll lose you just when I've found you…"

My throat felt tight; I could have wept for us both. I knew that fear so well. It crept up on me unbidden, in the depths of night when the mind and heart are unquiet… My voice shook a little as I spoke. "We are here together for a reason, you and I. We have to trust that."

He didn't answer, just held me. After a moment, he kissed me gently on the lips. I leaned into the kiss, taking and giving comfort from it at the same time. _All I want is to love you_, I thought, but didn't say it. I had the sense he knew it anyway.

We broke apart, and he touched my cheek. "Back to work," he said, attempting lightness. "I'll brief Susan and Marcus while you whack diplomatic heads together. Knock 'em dead, huh?"

At my shocked expression, he laughed and shook his head. "You have the damnedest—"

"—Gaps in my vocabulary." I picked up the flimsy and then stood for a moment, just looking at him. So strong, so brave, so vulnerable. I wanted to wrap him in my arms, spirit us away someplace where there was no war, no Shadows, no fear of loss. Just the two of us, and love, and all the time in the Universe.

There was no such place, of course. We must make do with what we had. He came up beside me, and we left the War Room hand in hand.

**ooOoo**

The meeting with the non-aligned ambassadors in the Council chamber was even stormier than I had expected. To say they did not like being given so little detail on so significant a mission was an understatement. Many of them were furious, Ambassador Trkider of the Drazi leading them in full-throated outcry. I had to shout them down just to finish what little I could say. They wanted more and were determined to get it, if only as proof that our word was to be trusted. I had my own answer to that, and let them have it with blunt honesty. By the time Lennier and I left them to deliberate, the best thing I could say for any of it was that at least they were all still there. None had taken me up on my challenge to go if we had not yet earned their trust through all the promises we had kept.

"An hour at the most," I told Lennier as we left the Council chamber behind. I could still hear my fellow dignitaries, bickering and shouting, though the sounds mercifully receded the farther away we got. "They should not need any more to decide what to say to their governments. And to us." Anger and anxiety had twin hold of me, the one fueled by the other. This engagement was our best hope of finally, as John said, taking the war to the enemy. Yet, given the degree of opposition we had met with, I was more than half-convinced they would give us nothing—or so few ships that it would not matter. And then what? Could the White Star fleet and all available Minbari cruisers take on the Shadow assault force ourselves with any realistic chance of victory?

I could not even answer that without knowing how large a force we would face. And we had no way to determine that until battle was engaged.

"I am somewhat thirsty," Lennier said. "A cup of tea and something to go with it would be most welcome. Perhaps some _chirnoi_? There is a shop in the Zocalo that sells them, not far from here."

His tone was a shade too carefully casual. Clearly he had noticed how tense I was, and was doing his best to help. A small, warm glow of affection for him dispelled some of my unease. "So there is. Very well. It will pass the time."

I knew the place he spoke of—a cozily appointed tea-and-coffee shop co-owned and run by a worker-caste Minbari and her human business partner. They were an unlikely pair, Naleya _ys_ Hadaan and Elijah Scott; she well into middle age, a bundle of motherly energy in a scarcely five-foot frame, he lanky and taciturn, most at home in a hot kitchen with copious amounts of flour and sugar and butter and other ingredients with which he concocted his creations. I had met them in my first year aboard Babylon Five, when Naleya petitioned me to intercede with her clan for permission to open the business. The Hadaani, like most worker caste clans, treated business partnerships like family ties, and were concerned to work through every possible repercussion of allowing a human the equivalent of kinship rights. In the end, all had worked out to everyone's satisfaction. My reward was an ongoing gift of tea and _chirnoi_, free of charge, whenever I cared to claim it.

Five minutes' walk brought us there. Naleya stood behind the service counter, chatting with a Narn customer as he paid his bill. He left, and she glanced our way. That one look brought her out from behind the counter, concern written on her face. "Another difficult day, is it? Clearly, you need sustenance." She gestured us toward an empty table in a quiet corner. "Please go and sit, Entil'zha, Lennier. I will bring you something directly."

We sat, and shortly thereafter Naleya appeared with two large mugs of steaming spice tea and a plate of four _chirnoi_. "'On the house,' as Elijah says," she told us, then bowed and bustled off. In typical Minbari fashion, she had not asked what the trouble was. Nor would she; her job, as she had put it once, was to ease people's days with a little space of quiet and something that tasted good. The rest, she said, was up to the Universe.

There was root sugar from Minbar to put in the tea, as well as honey and cane sugar from Earth. I added a small spoonful of honey, stirred my tea and then stared at it without drinking. I could not speak of my worries, even to Lennier. I felt taut, like an over-stretched string on a doubleharp. Desperate for some sort of distraction, I found myself watching Lennier's hands as he stirred root sugar into his tea and picked up a _chirnoi_. The little pastries were thick with chopped nuts under their burnt-sugar crust. I didn't need to see his face to know his eyes were on me. Wondering why I was not eating, most likely… or all too aware of the depth of unease that could make me ignore my favorite treat from home.

"If you will not have at least one," he said gently, "then it is unmannerly of me to eat them. Naleya meant them to be shared."

I attempted a smile and picked up a _chirnoi_, tore off a small piece for Valen from habit, and set it aside. The second piece I broke off was meant to go in my mouth, but instead I began to shred the dough, layer by delicate later. "What will we do if they give us nothing?" I asked finally. "We cannot do this on our own. Not even with the White Star fleet. And the Vorlons are back to being no help at all. It is as if Kosh never sacrificed himself to teach them anything." Unexpected sadness made my throat hurt. "Did he do it for nothing, then? Nothing but to buy us some time that will prove to have been wasted?"

"Delenn." Lennier set down his pastry and leaned toward me across the table. "We must have faith, in our allies and in ourselves. Faith manages. Have you not told me this more than once?"

I had—though I did not care to remember the last time I used those words to him. Faith had managed then, enabling us to reunite a lost little Markab girl with her mother… just in time for them to die of the plague together. A shadow crossed Lennier's face, and he glanced down at his plate. "Forgive me," he said, sounding abashed. "A poor choice of memories to bring to mind. But still."

I touched the back of his hand. "Of course. You are right. It is only… difficult to remember faith sometimes."

The look he gave me was full of affection. "You do very well with difficult. If it were otherwise, you would not be here, looking as you do and wearing that robe."

My smile this time was warmer. "I am well schooled by my student."

He blushed faintly as he broke off part of his _chirnoi_. "Only when necessary."

We ate and drank mostly in companionable silence after that, and I found myself reflecting on what he had said. _Faith manages_… a saying so old among Minbari that most of us had long since stopped thinking about what it really meant. Yet here, aboard this station, I saw examples of it every day. Lennier himself was one; he had faith, in our cause and in me. So much faith that he had followed me into fire and darkness, with no thought to his own future and no guarantee that any of us would live to see the outcome of the war we fought.

John had faith, that he and I and others could somehow forge a victory from an unlikely collection of ad-hoc allies against a far more powerful and better organized enemy. And that it would be worth whatever price we might pay. And Susan… she had faith, that in fighting this war, she fought for the freedom of the Earth Alliance as well, even though many on Earth believed her a traitor and a renegade for it. Marcus had faith, that the work of the Anla'shok could show him a way out of despair over the losses he had suffered. Garibaldi had faith, that there was meaning in doing right even when surrounded by cynicism and doubt. G'Kar, and Lyta, and Stephen… all of them had faith, too. G'Kar, that throwing his people's lot in with ours made them part of something greater. Lyta, that whatever suffering she endured now was worth it for the sake of lives to be saved. Stephen, that if only he walked far enough he would find himself and begin to heal whatever had broken inside him. All of them, keeping faith even when it seemed a fool's game to do so. With such friends to show me the way, how could I fail to follow their example?

A soft chime came from a commlink on Lennier's belt. He glanced down at it. "The _Dogato_ has taken up station," he said. "And I believe the hour is nearly up."

I had managed half a _chirnoi_ and most of the tea, and felt marginally better than when we walked in. "Go, then," I told him as we stood. "I will return to the Council room."

**ooOoo**

To my shock, the sole occupant of the Council chamber was Ambassador Trkider, who sat with his bowed head resting in his hands. He looked up at the sound of my entry, and for a moment I feared the worst.

"The others have gone to speak to their governments," he said. "They have authorized me to speak in their place." His voice held its customary edge of disdain, but something else lay beneath it. Bravado, and fear. He paused, and the scales at the crest of his skull took on the deep blue of strong emotion among Drazi. "You will have all the ships we can spare, Delenn. I only hope you are right, because it will cost us greatly if you are wrong."

I knew what he was afraid of. He was frightened for his people, his homeworld, and I could not blame him. He and I had our difficulties, and I could not like Trkider—but in that moment I saw a proud man forced to show himself vulnerable, and felt compassion for him. It had cost him greatly to agree with the rest, and would cost him still more if he persuaded his government to weaken the Drazi homeworld's defenses only to see our assault on the Shadows fail. He was a patriot risking his planet, on little more than my and John's word.

"I know what we are asking," I replied, and let him see a little of the fear I myself carried. "Captain Sheridan knows it, too. But we must be allies, and help each other, if there is to be any hope."

"Hope." He spoke the word as if its meaning were alien to him. "There seems precious little of that these days." With a curt Drazi gesture of farewell, he stalked out of the room.

I watched him go, unsettled by his words. _There has to be hope_, I thought. _Because sometimes, in the darkest hours, hope is all we have_.


	38. Chapter 38

**Author's Note: **This chapter is a continuation of "Shadow Dancing", and includes some dialogue from that episode. As usual, gapfillers and additions are my own.

I have completely made up Hedronn's appearance at the battle in Sector 83; I claim no sanction of canon for throwing him into it. There is, however, a paucity of information available about his life before he joined the Grey Council, so I figured what the heck.

**Part 39—"They Shall Not Pass"**

Ambassador Lethke of the Brakiri delivered the roster of ships to me via Babcom the following morning. I requested the comm unit to print out a hardcopy, then read it over as I hastily finished my breakfast. This number of capital ships, that number of carriers, complements of fighters for each ship that carried them… Drazi, Brakiri, Pak'mara, Hyach and more… By the time I reached the end of it, I was not sure whether to be relieved or apprehensive. I suspected the list of forces fell somewhat short of _all the ships we can spare_—yet it was considerably more than my worst imaginings had painted. And it just might be enough.

I read over the printout three times as I dressed, dredging up old discussions of tactics and strategy from my long-ago days on the _Valen'tha_. I had learned such things as an acolyte, discussed them often with Dukhat during our time together… The thought of Dukhat made me put down the printout and press a hand to my eyes. I wondered if he would be proud of what we had done thus far, and glad to know the terrible breach caused by his death had been healed. If he were here now, if I could tell him everything... The Earth-Minbari war. My change. The rise of the Shadows. Valen and Sinclair. John. Especially John and everything he was to me. Abruptly, I found myself wishing for my father. What would _he_ think of it all? Would he understand, as he always had until the end?

What was the matter with me, wallowing in memories of the dead when we had the living to save? A soft beeping from the Babcom unit broke my train of thought. John's face came up on the screen, anxious and impatient. "Any word?"

I held up the printout. "Ambassador Lethke sent this a few minutes ago. I was just coming to show you."

He looked half relieved, half apprehensive. "I'll be here," he said, and signed off.

**ooOoo**

He was less than pleased, as I had been, when he read over the list of ships that would join us at the rendezvous point in hyperspace. As usual, there was nothing for it but to make the best of what we had. The Minbari cruiser _Dogato_ was standing by, I told him as he went to retrieve his uniform jacket from the foot of his bed. As soon as we boarded, she would be on her way.

He tried once more to persuade me to stay behind, though not with much conviction. In his heart, he already knew my response: "We're in this together." Knowing that didn't stop him being afraid for me, though, far more than he was for himself.

An idea came to me then—a way to hold both our inmost fears at bay. A talisman of sorts, something to come back for. A daring thing to suggest, but…

I moved close to him, placed both hands on his chest. A ritual gesture, though he would not know its meaning until I explained. I knew, and the simple making of it quickened my breath even before the words came. When we were finished with this, I told him, we would spend the night together.

His eyes widened, and for half a second I wondered if he knew more than I had assumed. Then I recalled certain late-night conversations with Susan regarding the thought patterns of human males, and realized what must have gone through his mind. I should have felt embarrassed, but such was my joy in what I _was_ trying to tell him that I could only laugh at the error. "Not like that," I said, and described the watching ritual as best I could. I chose to say nothing of my night vigil with him en route to Ganymede, which I knew shouldn't count even though part of me wanted it to. The face of John Sheridan I had seen then was one I couldn't help but love…

His question broke into my brief daydream. "What if she doesn't like what she sees?"

I can only blame the passing thought of Susan and those late-night conversations about men for the pure mischief in my reply. "They go their separate ways." I paused just long enough for him to absorb the harmlessness of that, then went on. "If he insists she stay one more night, she can leave when he falls asleep, file a complaint with the elders, even cut off his…" Another pause, as deliberate as the first. I watched his face while pretending not to, and was rewarded with a look of horrified shock so total, it was comical. Oh, I would definitely tell Susan about this later. But first, I would put John out of his misery. "…His access to her family," I finished.

Relief spread across his face. And then something else… a teasing smile of his own, as if he had belatedly guessed what I was up to and liked it. "What if she does like what she sees?"

_Shan'fal_, I thought, feeling as if I were lit from within. I could not explain _that_ ritual now, couldn't think clearly where to begin in the face of desire that swept through me with the force of a summer rainstorm. I pressed a finger to his lips—the only action I could permit myself and maintain any hope of self-control. "Later," I said, as much to myself as to him. "History awaits."

**ooOoo**

Lennier met and briefed us when we boarded the _Dogato_. All was in readiness, though no word had yet come from Susan and Marcus. I tried not to feel too worried at this, and succeeded about as well as one might in building a fire with snow. It was a relief to have something to do as we traveled toward the rendezvous point: showing John the tactical center, sharing attack data with the _Dogato_'s captain, going over yet again what information we had on our enemy's few weaknesses and how best to use our own strengths to exploit them. At one point during all this, John glanced up from the flow of data across a screen and cocked an eyebrow at me where I stood near him on the cruiser's bridge. "Nerve-wracking as all hell, isn't it?"

My face showed eloquently how much I agreed with him. A few paces away, _Sokai_ Manevet—captain of the _Dogato_—glanced up, and I caught a smile in the depths of her flinty grey eyes. "Best to get the worrying over with now," she said dryly. "We will have no time for it once battle is engaged."

John gave her an easy grin. "As my people like to say, truer words were never spoken."

The camaraderie between them—one soldier to another, for all Manevet was religious caste—was a welcome thing. _Sokai_ Manevet had taken to John within seconds of meeting him, though her mode of expressing it shocked me at first: "So you are Captain Sheridan. Let us hope you will soon add 'Shadowkiller' to your list of achievements, hmm?"

He took her comment in stride, responding with a brief nod of equal to equal. "That's my intent, _Sokai_. And I'm glad to have your help at it."

Lennier, standing next to me, had murmured in my ear: "Perhaps I should have warned you. _Sokai_ Manevet is famously blunt, though her crew does not mind in the slightest. They appear to like it, in fact." He hesitated, then went on. "She is also my great-aunt. So you see where I come by an occasional impulse toward…"

"Honesty?" I suggested when he trailed off.

He caught my eye, and I saw my own amusement mirrored there. "A well-chosen word. Much better than some others you might have used..."

Ten hours out, _Sokai_ Manevet called a strategy meeting aboard the _Dogato_ for all the cruiser captains. I went to the landing bay and greeted them one by one as they boarded, my presence an acknowledgment of how much theirs was valued. Solemn-faced and determined, each captain carried a small leather satchel dyed with the symbol for silence in Minbar's ancient language. The knowledge of what lay in those satchels brought a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. The silence meant was not the mere absence of sound. It was the long silence of voices forever stilled, bodies obliterated before they could be put to sacred flame, souls gone on untimely to the next incarnation. Any of our ships or crews might be lost in the battle that was coming. The _Dogato _would be a repository for each crewman's name, written on scraps of blessed paper and collected in the satchels, to be burned in lieu of their bodies should it become necessary. Their names would be spoken, their sacrifice honored, a finger's width of ash sent home to be scattered someplace they had loved. Such was the way of my people in war since time beyond time.

The last captain to board came as a surprise sufficient to drive such morbid thoughts from my mind. "Hedronn! I did not expect you here…"

He was smiling, clearly delighted with the effect his appearance had on me. "I am _sokai_ for the _M'Vili_," he said. "I have spent the last few months re-accustoming myself to her. It has been some time since I served as her captain, but _Sokai_ Terenn—my successor—insisted." We fell into step behind the others, heading down the corridor. I was pleased to see the spring in Hedronn's stride, his energetic sense of purpose. "Part of me always regretted leaving the _M'Vili_ to join the Grey Council, honor though it was. At heart, I remain an explorer." He glanced down at me. "Perhaps, when this madness ends, I can be that again. Politics and diplomacy have rather lost their allure lately."

I gave him a sardonic look. "Not that there is any reason for that."

He chuckled softly. "Outspoken as ever, I see. Do you find that an advantage, working with humans as much as you do?"

"And Narn, and Drazi, and Brakiri, and Hyach, and Pak'mara…"

His eyes widened. "They are all part of this? And you have not yet gone mad?"

A breath of laughter escaped me. "Not yet. Though on occasion I have come close."

He shook his head. "It is a strange universe these days. But perhaps a better one. Certainly we can hope such a one lies before us."

We walked on in silence. Then he spoke again. "I saw Mayan not so long ago. We crossed paths in Yedor and dined together. She requested me to send you her love, and her prayers for your safety."

Mayan. I had not thought of her in weeks, and had sadly neglected what correspondence we managed to maintain. "She is home, then? And looking well?"

"Quite well. It was a most pleasant evening."

An unexpected note in his voice made me look sharply at him. There was a softness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. I knew he and Mayan had met, at a long-ago performance in Yedor that coincided with one of Hedronn's visits home. Apparently, there was more to their acquaintance than I realized. That notion both pleased and unsettled me, mainly because I had not thought of it before—though if there was anything to be made of this apparent interest of Hedronn's, it was up to him and Mayan.

Perhaps it was the knowledge of the vagaries of war that prompted what I said next. Or perhaps, hopeful for my own affair of the heart, I wished everyone such hope. "If all goes well, you will be back in Minbari space before I am. I would be most grateful if you went to Mayan and let her know I am safe and well, and that I will be in touch soon."

Was he blushing? He was. Subtly but definitely, and still with that soft-eyed look. "I am most honored to do so."

_Who would have thought._ I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

We were nearing the conference room. Footsteps in the cross-corridor made me look up. John was approaching, data-reader in hand. "Delenn, good. I've been going over Lyta's report again, and I think I found something else we can do with the telepaths—" He halted as he reached us, eyes on Hedronn, and his expression cooled. "Well," he said quietly. "And what brings a minister of culture to the eve of combat?"

Hedronn glanced away. To my bewilderment, he looked abashed. As if he knew—and regretted—precisely what John was talking about. I glanced from one of them to the other, waiting for enlightenment. None seemed forthcoming. "You have met?" I asked at length.

"Couple of years ago." John's gaze flicked to me. "You were in a cocoon at the time…"

Hedronn seemed to come to some decision. "I owe you an apology, Captain Sheridan. I spoke to you then with a harshness you did not merit, and I lacked the grace to correct my error afterward. Will you permit me to do so now, in the interests of our common goal?"

Constraint held between them for a heartbeat, then vanished as John nodded. "Apology accepted." His lips quirked in a brief smile. "And I'd like to offer one of my own. There was no call for what I said a minute ago." He held out a hand. Without hesitation, Hedronn took it.

I would not ask, I decided as the three of us entered the conference room. Not until later, when everything was over.

**ooOoo**

The strategy session ate up nearly six hours. John, Lennier and I spent the remaining four, and two more after that once we reached the rendezvous point, eating a sketchy meal and trying to rest. After an hour of tossing and turning, I gave up on sleep and tried meditation instead. It wasn't much improvement. I kept seeing Shadow vessels, their deadly energy weapons slicing through ship's hull after ship's hull. Minbari cruisers, White Stars, Drazi carriers, Brakiri frigates… my mind would not stop producing such pictures, and after a time there was nothing for it but to snuff out the candle and try sleep again.

I lay back down, but could not get comfortable. I wanted John with me so fiercely my whole body ached. The feeling went far beyond physical desire; I needed his presence to calm my soul. I was terrified, I admitted finally. Terrified that he would die, or I would die, or those we had persuaded to follow us here would be slaughtered in payment for their trust. Susan, Marcus, Lennier. Hedronn. Manevet and her crew. G'Kar, aboard the last surviving Narn heavy cruiser. Every warrior of every race that had lent ships to our cause, on my word and John's that the coming battle must be fought and could be won. What if we were wrong? What if no signal had come from the White Star, on its perilous scouting mission, because that mission had already failed? Susan dead, Marcus dead, their White Star a burning hulk amid a silently waiting Shadow armada?

A three-note chime sounded from the comm unit in the quarters I had claimed. A message from the bridge. I knew what it had to be, and was running almost as soon as my feet hit the floor. The signal. We had entered the fire.

**ooOoo**

A lifetime removed from that long-ago battle, I still recall it with the crystal clarity of a winter's dawn. Standing with John in the tactical center on the _Dogato_, I felt as if I were two people. One cool and calm, tracking events with split-second precision, the other holding hard to grief and terror lest they burst through and take hold. That first self was all swift calculation, relaying everything I saw while John barked out orders, as if the darting, firing, often dying ships were no more than moving dots on a tactical read-out. As for my other self…

Even now, I have no words to speak the whole truth of it. Each ship reduced to tumbling debris, each of our dead consigned to the cold mercies of space, was a lash that left a bleeding stripe on my soul. The worst was being unable to acknowledge the losses as they happened; in the midst of pitched combat, there was no time for fear or rage or anguish. I buried those feelings in a dark corner of my psyche and kept on with my task. I would pay for it later, I knew that, but at the moment nothing mattered save survival and some kind of victory.

There was one bad moment when my second self nearly broke through. Shadow fighters had surrounded the Drazi carrier group, and two enemy capital ships were lumbering into position to destroy the entire Drazi flotilla. John ordered the _M'Vili_, the closest Minbari cruiser, to drop back and defend them. She moved off with proud grace, away from the rest of our formation on her mission of rescue. Her forward guns scattered the enemy fighters, then took on the nearest of the larger Shadow vessels. Ably assisted by a passing White Star, she destroyed her target—and then a broadside from the second enemy vessel caught her amidships. The violet beams sliced her in half, spilling air and the bodies of her crew into the icy vacuum. I watched the shattered sections of the _M'Vili_ fall away, as if in slow motion, while cold shock coursed through my veins. Sick with it, I kept my eyes on the battlefield. My first self came to my rescue then. The calculating brain kept thinking, the cool voice kept speaking, while inside I died a little. Had there been survivors? Any sign of life pods from the broken _M'Vili_? I couldn't remember. In Valen's name, I couldn't remember.

The battle wore on. I watched, spoke, stayed numb inside as we fought. A Shadow ship crumpled in on itself, slain by two Brakiri frigates and the _G'Tok_, yet I felt no more than a dim echo of hard satisfaction. Shadow fighters erupted in flame; Shadow capital ships halted and shuddered under the impact of assault from the telepaths deep inside our own vessels. We were at least fighting them to a stalemate. Then, abruptly, it was over. What remained of the Shadow fleet shimmered out of existence, to lick the wounds we had given them and plot revenge. And we were left amid a field of surviving ships and floating debris, battered and bloodied and too much in shock to absorb our success, let alone the price of it.

I remember turning, catching John's eye. The two of us coming together, holding each other like anchors against a tide of grief for the dead. Deep within me, a trembling started and wouldn't let up. Within seconds I was shaking as hard as if I'd walked naked in a blizzard.

I felt John stroking my hair. "It's over," he murmured in my ear. "It's over, Delenn. We came through."

I couldn't, at first, say the name that filled my mind. I kept seeing the _M'Vili_'s dying fall through the blackness of space. "Hedronn." My voice cracked. "The _M'Vili_… she was his ship…"

His grip on me tightened, and he swore softly. Then he pitched his voice to reach the fleet-wide comm system. "All able-bodied vessels, hunt for survivors. And get your infirmaries ready. We're going to need them."

**ooOoo**

Hedronn was alive, though badly burned. "Explosion," he murmured through cracked lips from the bed where I found him in the _Dogato_'s overflowing infirmary. "Power conduit. Close to the life pods. I was with Chadenn, our helmsman." A harsh cough racked him, and he briefly struggled for breath. "Dragging him to safety. Or he was dragging me. I cannot remember." Tears welled in his eyes; he winced as they traced a path down his ravaged face. "He is dead. Chadenn. The explosion killed him. Not ten steps away from the pods. Ten steps."

He swallowed hard, coughed again. A cup of water stood nearby; I lifted him as best I could and helped him get a little down. "I will tell Chadenn's family," I said. My voice shook. "And see to it that the ashes of his name are sent home, to be scattered somewhere he loved."

"My hand," he whispered as I set the water cup down. "Help me open it."

His left hand was curled in a fist, the skin charred and puckered. He was trying to move his fingers, but the damaged muscles had locked in place. I slid my fingertips beneath his and pulled gently upward. A hiss of pain escaped him as his injured hand slowly unfolded. In his palm lay a collar pin, enameled in bright green. A helmsman's insignia.

"Send them this," Hedronn murmured. I had to strain to hear him. "And tell them… tell them…"

I lifted the pin, my own hand curving shut around it. "I will."

"In case," he said. His eyelids fluttered shut and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

I was dimly aware of voices behind me. Lennier reporting on casualties to John, John asking brief questions. Numbers, severity, resources to tend the wounded. Hedronn's labored breathing threatened to drown them out. I crouched down and spoke in his ear, heedless of the tears running down my face. "I know you can hear me, old friend. You made me a promise. You said you would go to Mayan and tell her I am all right. I will hold you to that."

He showed no sign of awareness. Yet I knew he heard me anyway.

**ooOoo**

By the time we neared Babylon Five, it was clear Hedronn would pull through. We had lost a few more of the worst wounded aboard the _Dogato_, but overall the rescued survivors would live. A small mercy, but one for which I felt grateful. How much had our victory cost? I did not know and was afraid to ask. My only other direct experience of war was one I didn't care to remember. In that conflict, my people had taken relatively few casualties fighting a foe who never should have been one. It was nothing like what we now faced, and I had no standard for comparison. Only ancient histories and old tales from a thousand years ago.

Garibaldi met us in the docking bay, with a small army of medical personnel. Stephen was not among them, but we expected that. Lieutenant Corwin in C&C had given us a breath of good news when we came through the jump gate—Stephen had been found, gut-stabbed but alive, in a shabby marketplace in Downbelow. He was resting as comfortably as might have been expected, and would make a full recovery.

As to the battle, our news was less good. John put a brave face on it, but there was no escaping the sobering fact that we had lost two of our own ships for every Shadow vessel we killed. To keep winning at that rate was to lose through attrition. Still, as Susan said, it was something of an accomplishment to have organized so many disparate races into a single fighting force. Next time—and there would be one—we would simply have to do better.

John stayed beside me as we left the bay. I felt bone-weary, and wanted nothing so much as a hot shower and a long sleep. Before I could have them, though, there were other matters to attend to.

"I'm exhausted," John said, as if echoing my thoughts. He gave a ragged chuckle. "Too bad I still have miles to go before I sleep."

"Robert Frost," I murmured, with a faint sense of pleasure at having recognized the quotation. Sinclair had introduced me to the poetry of Earth, including Frost, Yeats and Shakespeare. "But there are no dark woodlands here."

"No. A space-station corridor's not exactly evocative of poetry." As we reached a crossway, he touched my shoulder. "The League ambassadors will want a briefing. Should we talk to them together, or…?"

I shook my head. "You have station business to catch up on. I doubt they will want to wait. Best to tell them something as soon as possible. We might have a fuller briefing later, in the War Room."

"All right." He yawned hugely and shook his head as if to clear it. "If you're sure…"

"I am sure." I managed a small smile. "I think, though, that I will see them one at a time rather than all together. I am not sure I could face that."

"Delenn," he said, as I started to move away.

"Yes?"

"I meant what I told Garibaldi back there. We did okay, all things considered."

I thought of Hedronn, and all the others injured or killed. "And will do better. We must."

"No question." He held my gaze a moment longer. The confidence I read there, even through his weariness, made the weight on my own heart a little less.

I nodded farewell and left him, for the silence of my quarters and thoughts of what I would say to the League ambassadors.

**ooOoo**

Ambassador Lethke took the news of Brakiri losses in silence. Courtly and dignified even in grief, he thanked me for bringing him word and said he would attend a more extended briefing when we held one. The others were much the same: few words, much sorrow, glimmers of satisfaction that we had won the engagement, apprehension at the prospect of telling their governments just how much our victory in Sector 83 had cost. Ambassador Chak'de of the Pak'mara, in broken English filtered through his translating device, was the most direct: "More together next time, we fight. Better. Strong like brothers." He made the odd grunting sound his people used for emphasis. "Pak'mara are there, Honored Delenn. Tell Honored Sheridan. Pak'mara are always there. Honored Chak'de says so."

His fervent declaration touched me. Scorned or overlooked as they often were, the Pak'mara were proving one of our staunchest allies. My farewell bow showed deep respect, a nuance I knew would not be lost on him. Chak'de noticed, and remembered, far more than many of our colleagues ever gave him credit for.

I left the most difficult encounter for last. Rumor must have traveled swiftly; by the time I reached Trkider's quarters, the Drazi ambassador wore an expression more forbidding than a barren mountain peak. Silently, I handed him a printed list of Drazi casualties: ships destroyed, ships damaged, personnel wounded, dead or presumed so. He studied it for a long time, the scales on his crest slowly turning deeper blue.

"How many Minbari ships were destroyed?" he asked at length.

"What?" I could not make sense of the question.

"You heard me." He pointed the printout at me like a weapon. "How many? None?"

In my mind's eye I saw the _M'Vili_, carved in half, venting atmosphere and corpses into the void. Tightly controlled anger fueled my reply. "We lost three cruisers. One destroyed, two crippled. The destroyed one died defending the Drazi carrier group."

His eyes widened, and for a moment he looked abashed. Then his mouth turned down. "And we should be grateful?" he said coldly.

As swiftly as my anger rose, it fled. Suddenly I felt weary of this endless feinting game. "You will be what you will be," I said, grave and quiet. "I only tell you because you asked."

To my surprise, I caught a glimmer of regret in his face before he turned away.

**ooOoo**

The encounter with Trkider unsettled me. That he would demand to know how many Minbari had died, as if we had shirked our part in the engagement and endangered the Drazi in the process… If this was how the Drazi truly felt, they would be fair-weather allies at best. At worst—but I did not want to think of that. Would not let myself put words to the fear of what might happen if the Shadows learned of such mistrust in our ranks and chose to exploit it.

It might only be Trkider, I told myself as I left his quarters behind. Not all Drazi were as wary of Minbari as he was, and I had a sense also that he disliked me personally. Perhaps because I was not fully Minbari any longer, but half-human now. Trkider understood things in clear categories and thought in narrow patterns. Anything outside them made him uneasy… and I, become a hybrid being through a process even my own people did not fully understand, was far outside any simple category.

My own quarters were only one level up, but the thought of being alone there brought me no solace. I wanted John, to look at and talk with and be close to. His presence eased me as nothing else could, even when it also made my nerves jangle and my heart skip beats. But he was surely busy now, catching up on a thousand different vital tasks. To drag him away from them because Trkider had distressed me seemed childish.

Where to go, then? I thought of the Zen garden, the little waterfall I loved, and turned my steps toward it. John and I had met and talked there so often, it felt like our own special place. If I could not have him just yet, I would have the next best thing.

He was there when I arrived, seated on a curved stone bench, listening to the waterfall with his eyes shut. _An omen_, I thought, as I lingered in the entryway and watched him. He looked exhausted, face drawn and shoulders slumped. And yet within him was a core of strength that nothing could diminish. Even from halfway across the garden I saw it in how he held himself.

He must have heard my footfall. He opened his eyes and glanced around, and the look on his face when he saw me set my heart to dancing. He murmured my name and held out a hand. Like a binary star to its twin, I moved toward him.

He took my hand as I sat beside him. "How did it go?"

Caught up in his presence, it took me a moment to recall what he was asking about. The League ambassadors. "Not as badly as I expected. Ambassador Trkider was difficult. But he always is." I could have told him the details, but I didn't feel like talking about it. I simply wanted to be with him, let his nearness drive trouble away.

"We'll set up a fuller briefing tomorrow," he said. "I'm thinking mid-afternoon; give us a little time to flesh out what needs to be said." He rubbed a hand over his face and gave me a tired smile. "Because honestly, I don't have it in me to think that through right now."

I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder. "It has been a very long several days."

"It has that." He slipped an arm around me, and for awhile there was no sound except the muted song of the falling water.

"We lost too many ships, didn't we?" I said after a time.

"More than I like. Less than we might have." He shifted slightly, settling me more comfortably against him. "After we brief the League reps, let's talk about our next move. I'd like Susan there as well; she has a good head for tactical thinking. Is there any chance we could replace some of the White Stars we lost…?"

I glanced up at him. "I called Rathenn. He says there are two groups of nine that have finished all their testing. They should be on their way here in a few hours. Another group is nearly ready, and can leave within the next two days if all goes well."

"Good. That's a big help." He fell silent, looking down at me. His expression warm and open, yet oddly hesitant. "Delenn… about that watching ritual you mentioned…"

Abrupt confusion made me dry-mouthed. "You… you do not wish to—"

He looked startled. "No—I mean, yes. Yes, I want to do it. I just—I don't think I'm in the right frame of mind for it tonight. I mean, not if it's what it sounded like. I know it matters a lot to you. I want to do it right. I don't know when you'd planned on it, but—"

Sheer relief made me laugh softly. How foolish I was, to doubt him for a second. "Don't worry. We have up to three days to prepare, should we feel the need." My gaze drifted back to the waterfall as more sober thoughts took hold. "I am not in the right frame of mind yet, either."

He kissed my forehead, then rested his cheek on the top of my head. We watched the play of water on stone in silence. "Mind you," he said after a long pause, with a glimmer of humor, "I'm still not sure what you expect to see in a face that's mashed and drooling into the pillow..."

I matched his light tone. "Now you are fishing for compliments."

"I'll take 'em where I can get 'em."

I nestled closer to him. "I know what I will see. And I will tell you in the morning."

More fool I, dreaming of a morning after that would not come.


	39. Chapter 39

**Author's Note: **This chapter goes through the end of "Shadow Dancing"; the closing lines of dialogue are quoted from that episode. As always, gapfillers and existing-scene additions are my own.

**Part 40—The Price of Silence**

The next day's briefing in the War Room was a subdued affair, the League ambassadors sobered out of their usual squabbling by the seriousness of the situation. There was no question we had done well against tremendous odds; there was also no question that we could not afford many more such victories. "We'll need to train together, as much as is feasible," John said, projecting utter confidence that our League allies would agree. "The more we do that, the stronger a fighting force we can field. We held our own and then some this time, and forced the enemy to retreat. Next time, we'll hit them harder and lose fewer."

G'Kar spoke as well, offering a concise first-hand account of events as witnessed from the bridge of the _G'Tok_. Conviction was in every word, every line of his proud carriage and determined face. The dead had died honorably, he said; the living must in turn honor that sacrifice by remembering that we were all in this together. By the time he finished, the atmosphere in the room had changed utterly. Nervous faces and darting eyes had given way to cool resolution, and I cautiously allowed myself to hope that our ad-hoc alliance would continue to hold.

Trkider, predictably, was the one to ask the most difficult question. "What of the Vorlons? They fought for us before. Where are they now?" Pointedly, he glanced around the conference table. Kosh's replacement was conspicuous by his absence.

"Their ambassador was recalled briefly for consultation," John said. As smooth a lie as any I had heard, to safeguard the honor of one who barely deserved it. "Once the Vorlons clarify their role, I'll pass the word along. But know this." His voice rang through the war room. "Kosh sacrificed considerably to bring us that first victory in Brakiri space. The Vorlons have fought the Shadows for eons; they're not about to back down." His grim expression eased into a conspiratorial grin. "Though if we train together and beef up our forces, with everyone pulling their weight, we might not need the Vorlons. Still be glad to have them, but…" He trailed off with a small shrug, holding Trkider's gaze as if daring him to contemplate the dazzling possibility of surpassing the Vorlons in anything. Trkider looked thoughtful and fell silent.

"You were right," John murmured to me later, after the last of the ambassadors had left. "Appeal to Trkider's ego and he shuts right up."

"I have seen it before." I gathered my notes and rolled them into a neat scroll. "Though his question is a valid one. What about the Vorlons?"

John scowled down at the table. "I wish I knew. It's like they're in a holding pattern, waiting to see what we'll do. Maybe waiting to see if we'll need them to pull our nuts out of the fire." Abruptly, his cheeks reddened. "Sorry. Soldiers' slang just slips out sometimes…"

What he had said seemed perfectly harmless. I let it pass, making a mental note to ask Susan what illicit meanings there might be for "fire" or "nuts," the only possible candidates for inadvertent entendres that I could discern. "I need a quick word with Lennier. I will meet you and Susan in your office in half an hour."

**ooOoo**

Minbari believe that dreams are the language of the Universe, whispering in our ears of what is to come. Some dreams are a warning. And sometimes we fail to heed them. Or see them for what they are. If I had seen more clearly, would anything have been changed? Or would events have unfolded precisely as they did, because the arc of our futures had already been shaped and could not be altered?

Even after all these years, I cannot answer that question. On my better days, I believe what John always told me—that he went to Z'ha'dum to change the future, not realizing he was meant to secure it. Other days, all I remember is my own desire to keep him from harm, and how I deceived him to make sure of it. That I deceived myself as well makes no difference to my sense of guilt. I wanted to believe Anna Sheridan was dead, because that meant John would not die trying to save her. And I did not wish to live in a Universe where he was not. Selfish? I don't know. But I have always regretted that the question, and the guilt, held me silent at a crucial moment. Because of that, as much as anything else, he went with her. We both paid a terrible price for my error.

I did not know what to make of the dream John spoke of, that day with Susan in his office. He was quick to dismiss it on the surface, but I could see it had touched something in him. It disturbed me as well, for reasons I couldn't define. Afterward, as I made my way from John's office to the Zocalo, half my mind on the question of what to bring Stephen in MedLab, the dream would not leave my thoughts. Who was the man in between? Was he John's equal and opposite? What had Kosh meant by, "You are the hand"? And why—this question nagged at me more than the rest—had Kosh communicated none of this to me? We were leading this war together, John and I. We were meant to do so. The Inquisitor had proved it. Yet Kosh had sent these dream-images only to John. I could not even help him interpret them; I was groping in the dark. I was not used to that. A memory of Kosh, mourning in his ship, came to mind. Then Susan, from the dream as John had described her, dressed for a funeral. Whose death was being heralded? I shivered and hurried on, toward the noise and bustle of the Zocalo.

The crowds offered some distraction, and I looked around for the fruit-seller's stall I particularly liked. The proprietor specialized in produce from several different worlds, and frequently had fresh _nichon_ berries. Stephen loved them, I recalled from a conversation we had once where he described hitchhiking on a freighter to Minbar a few years after the war. He had stayed at an inn in Tuzanor, virtually adopted by the worker caste family that ran it. They had shared with him Minbari choral music and _nichon_ berries for breakfast—a taste he swore he couldn't get enough of. After some days of MedLab food, he might welcome them all the more.

The berries were there, bright golden mounds of them next to spiny green melons from the Hyach homeworld and redfruit from the plains near Yedor. The sight of the redfruit gave me pause. They were early harvest, the pale rose of first ripening. Perfect for the watching ritual. I half-reached for one, then let my hand fall. Was I wrong to want this now, in the midst of war? The losses from the battle still weighed on me, and I wondered if I had any right to dwell on what my heart desired. Yet anything could happen to take John from me, or me from him, at any moment… Was it wrong to turn away from what might be ours, simply because I feared losing it too much to reach for it in the first place?

I filled a small bag with _nichon_, then on impulse snagged a second bag and dropped a single redfruit into it. An act of faith, I told myself, as I paid for my purchases and left. My heart was John's already; nothing could change that.

Stephen was propped up in bed, looking bored and cranky. His eyes lit when he saw me, and he smiled when he glimpsed the bag in my hand. "About time somebody brought me something to eat. The stuff that passes for food in here… I should apologize to my patients. Maybe I will. So what'd you bring me?"

I pursed my lips in mock disapproval. "Hello, Delenn. How nice to see you. I hope you are keeping well."

"All right, all right." He laughed, then winced. "Ow. Still hurts when I do that. It is nice to see you, though. For a while, I wasn't sure if I'd ever see anybody again."

"So I gather." I handed him the bag of berries. He dug out a handful and ate one, eyes shut with pleasure, then held the bag out to me. I took three berries, set one down for Valen on a nearby table, and ate the other two. They were perfectly ripe, tangy enough to curl the tongue. "You seem to be recovering well."

He nodded. "They're promising me a wheelchair later today if I'm a good boy."

"And have you been?"

"Not to hear my staff tell it. Then again, I was such a bastard for so long before going walkabout, the impulse toward payback must be irresistible."

I was curious about his walking ritual, and the fact that he had brought it up indicated willingness to talk of it. "Did you find yourself, then? As you intended?"

"Oh, yeah." He dug out more berries, popped three into his mouth, and paused to savor them. "Took me awhile," he went on, sounding slightly indistinct around the remnants of the fruit. "But I met myself. We had quite the conversation. Not easy hearing, especially as I was bleeding out at the time."

It sounded akin to the _mora'dum_, I thought, and told him so. "Not all that different in some ways," he agreed, with a thoughtful look. "Both of them, you have to face yourself. Because when it comes right down to it, sometimes you're all you've got."

A sobering thought. "I wish we could have done something. Helped you somehow before it came to that point."

He shrugged. "Garibaldi tried. I wasn't ready. Some things, you just have to go through by yourself. I don't know why that's so, but it is." He took out another _nichon_ berry, but didn't eat it. Instead, he rolled it in his palm, as if memorizing its weight and color and texture. "Funny, how you don't appreciate what you've got until you think you've lost it. I really believed I was going to die. I know the symptoms of shock and blood loss. And just when I thought I wasn't going to make it—that's when I realized I wanted to. For all the mistakes I've made in my life—all the people I've let down, all the risks I didn't take, all the times I ran away—I wanted to keep living. Even though I knew I'd probably mess up again. We do. That's the way things are. But as long as we're breathing, there's a chance to get it right. That's worth a lot. Living is worth a lot. Day by day, hour by hour."

I reached out and touched his wrist. "Thank you, Stephen."

He looked puzzled. "What for?"

"A reminder." I thought of the redfruit, left in a bowl on my kitchenette counter before I came to Medlab. A symbol of possibility. Of hope that existed despite the weight of war. Why not reach for it while we had the chance?

We talked a little longer, until I saw he was tiring and took my leave. Then I went to find John.

**ooOoo**

That night is engraved on my mind, in flashes of light and dark. Moments of brightness: the delight on John's face when he walked into his quarters and found me waiting there. The taste of the redfruit we shared, first on my tongue and then on his lips in a lovers' kiss. The ritual words we spoke, his eyes shining like stars as he repeated the responses I gave him. "_On this night, I stand at your gates… On this night, let the seeker come in… On this night, we share a beginning… On this night, let there be no end… On this night, what is hidden is revealed… On this night, may the heart's sight prevail._" The flare of the candle—a miniature pyramid of pale blue, the first of three—being lit. Blue is the color of hope and faith, the touchstones of the first night's watching. We had so much of both, not knowing how soon we would lose them.

The darkness came after.

"Now what?" John said, sounding almost shy as we stood together, holding each other, the prayer spoken and the redfruit consumed. Only the third piece was left, to be shared in the morning if the ritual went well.

His nearness and the sheer romance of the moment made my answer breathless. "Now you get ready to sleep. However you usually do."

He raised his eyebrows, wickedly playful. "Do you watch me change clothes, too?"

Heat flashed through me at the idea of seeing him naked, even if only briefly. Could he feel it, through his shirt where my palms met his back? "I don't think that would be wise…"

"Shucks." We leaned against each other, forehead to forehead. After a few moments of sweet silence, he spoke again. "So, ummm…"

"Yes," I said, in answer to his unspoken question. "We have a ritual for that, too."

"Which would be… after this one. If you like what you see…?" He toyed with the curve of my ear. A delicate touch, maddening and delightful.

_There are advantages to human-like ears_, I thought fuzzily as one of my hands slid upward to curve around his bare neck. "John…" His name was a breath of air. "Go and get ready to sleep, before I do something I am not supposed to yet…"

He stroked my ear again, then reluctantly stepped away. "I'll call when I'm ready."

I drifted for the next several minutes in a happy daydream. I was dimly aware of small sounds from the bedroom: John crossing the floor, drawers opening and closing, the muffled noise of water running and then shutting off. The moment seemed magical, full of promise. I knew I should be ready to accept whatever came, but such was the power of the love I felt, I could not imagine any outcome save the one I desired. A silent plea arose in my heart: _If this is meant, then let it be. No matter what happens, I will love him for the rest of our days._

The sound of his voice, calling softly from the bedroom, seemed a benevolent omen. I flew across the sitting-room, then halted and forced myself into some semblance of decorum before opening the bedroom doors.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, the coverlet partly turned down. The half-light was dim enough for sleeping, yet permitted me to see him clearly. His bare feet, graceful and oddly narrow for a man of his height, peeked out from beneath dark blue sleeping trousers. He wore no shirt. The sight of his bare chest roused in me a near-irresistible temptation to touch it. Instead, I stood rooted near the doorway, idly wondering if human males liked to have their chests stroked, and if there were any particular spots John might like more than others…

He cleared his throat, which brought me back to my senses. "So what's next? I lay down and go to sleep, and…?"

"And I watch you." I managed to take a few steps into the room. "All night. And I will see your true face."

"Like on the White Star, en route to Ganymede." His tone made it half a question.

Remembering my own wayward thoughts on that journey, I felt myself blushing. "Not exactly. It was not formalized… I did not ask, and you had not consented…"

"But you watched over me." He glanced down, then hesitantly back up. "What did you see then?"

"I saw you," I said, and let the look in my eyes tell him the rest.

He had trouble falling asleep with me there, as it turned out. At the time, it seemed a minor—and funny—complication. "I'm sorry," he said, propped up on one elbow, the coverlet sliding down from his bare shoulder. "I'm feeling self-conscious, I guess." Suddenly, he looked anxious. "I'm not messing anything up, am I? I know this means a lot to you…"

Touched and amused, I couldn't help laughing softly. "The ritual requires only that I watch you sleep. I don't need to watch you get there. I can go in the other room until I hear you snoring."

He looked indignant. "I do not snore."

"Yes, you do. I have heard you. On board the White Star, and before that—"

"Oh, lord." He was laughing himself now, but also looked mildly embarrassed. "That ceremonial dinner. I'd almost forgotten. I felt like such an idiot, and that was the last thing I wanted you to think of me as…" His expression turned tender. "I guess I was falling for you even then. I just didn't know it."

The ache in my heart then was a strange thing—a joy so intense, it bordered on pain. _I have loved you almost since we met_, I thought, but couldn't say it through the emotion that caught at my throat.

He must have seen it in my face. He caught my fingers and kissed them, then let me go. My skin tingled where his lips had touched. "I will come back when you are asleep," I murmured. It was hard to leave the room; all I wanted to do was look at him, be with him. Every way I could.

I roamed his quarters for the next little while, taking everything in as if I had never seen it before. Being here, so late and with the first night's watching to come, made familiar surroundings both strange and alluring. John's presence was everywhere: in books and pictures he loved, in small sculptures and other objects that held meaning for him. A baseball he had caught as a boy, in a championship game he called the "World Series." A snow globe he cherished, bought on a long-ago trip with his parents to a seaside region known as Cape Cod. Was it anything like the Inland Sea on Minbar, I wondered as I walked over to where it stood and lightly stroked the smooth, curved glass. I would tell him someday of my journey there as a child. What it meant to me at the time, still grieving my mother's loss, slowly learning to trust that my father would stay with me always.

The thought of my father made my throat ache, and I turned away from the snow-globe. What would he think if he could see me now? He had died believing me trapped in hatred of humans… and now here I was, in love with one. So deeply that John seemed a part of my soul, woven into it like strands of silk into a tapestry. Take those strands away, and there would be no picture left. Only fragments of what used to exist, their outlines hinting at the gaps.

Strange thoughts to have, on this night of all nights. The soft sound of a sleeper's breathing carried to me from the bedroom, and recalled me to a happier purpose. I returned and settled myself near the foot of his bed. It would be some little while before sleep took full enough hold for his true face to emerge, but in the meantime merely looking at him was a pleasure. The curve of eyelashes against his cheek, the rise and fall of his chest beneath the coverlet, the way his hair fell across his forehead… all these were signposts on the map of my love for him. Markers to remind me where my heart lay.

Time passed as I watched him and daydreamed. He stirred and murmured once, then settled into deeper sleep. _Not quite yet_, I thought, _but closer now_. I wanted to climb into bed and curl myself around him, feel the length of him next to me as if we were one body instead of two. _Later_, I told myself firmly, and got up before I could give in to that impulse. I walked around the bedroom, unwilling to leave it but seeking distraction before I returned to my vigil. A garment caught my eye, hanging on a hook on the outside of his bathroom door. A robe, dark blue like his sleeping trousers. I lifted it from the hook and caught his scent in the cloth. It made me think of sun-warmed wood, or a banked fire on a cold night. A scent that drew me in, redolent of homecoming and desire.

Half in a dream, I shed my over-robe and put John's on in its place. Wrapping myself in it felt like sharing his skin. I breathed deep of his sun-warmed smell, then went back to the bedside. He was nearly there now. Even as I watched, the last lines of care left his face and its true aspect began to emerge. Open, vulnerable, with a boyish innocence balanced by the strength and wisdom of years. He was everything I had thought him and more. Everything I wanted, or could imagine wanting.

Gratitude welled up in my heart for the gift of being here, now, loving John in the silence of the night. By morning, I would find a way to put it into words for him. I wanted him to know, to share everything I felt. To have no doubt that I was his—heart and mind, body and soul.

Hours drifted by. In a light meditative state, I scarcely noticed the passage of time. After awhile, a mild cramp in one leg made me aware that I needed to move. I wandered out of the bedroom, pulling John's robe tighter around me. The sitting-room had cooled, and the air held a slight chill. I would walk around for a minute or two, I decided, until my stiff muscles loosened.

The snow-globe, glinting in the dim light, drew me. I picked it up and turned it, first over and then upright again. Tiny flakes of mock snow drifted through the water inside the globe, making a winter landscape of the miniature lighthouse there. The simple beauty of it held all my attention.

Until there came the unexpected sound of the door cycling open. I turned in surprise toward the bright spill from the hallway. And saw a woman whose face I knew, from a photograph once glimpsed but not seen for nearly a year—and from a timeflash I had forgotten until this moment.

"Hello," Anna Sheridan said, with cool disdain. "You must be Delenn. I'm Anna Sheridan. John's wife."


	40. Chapter 40

**Author's Note: **This chapter takes us through "Z'ha'dum", "The Hour of the Wolf", and partway through "Whatever Happened to Mr. Garibaldi?". Some dialogue is quoted from those episodes. As always, gapfillers and scene additions are my own.

Though the exact time sequence is not given in the episode, I'm assuming it took at least several hours for John's White Star to reach Z'ha'dum. My completely random estimate is 18 hours, enough time for one day to elapse and another to begin. I have tried to depict Delenn's experience, between John's leaving her in his office and her receipt of his final message, with this in mind.

**Part 41—What Is Broken**

The snow globe fell from my hands and shattered. The noise roused John. He called out, his voice thick with sleep. "Delenn? You all right?"

"Go on," Anna said quietly. "Tell my husband he has a visitor."

I stumbled into the bedroom. John was sitting up, blinking in the dimness. "Delenn? What's wrong?" A look at my face brought him partway out of bed. "Are you sick? Is there something—"

He was near enough to touch me. I held up a hand and stepped away. Words forced themselves out through stiff lips. "There is… someone…"

I couldn't go on. Nor look at him. _Your wife is here_, I thought, but couldn't make myself say it. I had told him she was dead. I was wrong. I had wanted to be right. What did that make me?

I heard him take a few steps away, then the rustle of clothing as he quickly dressed. Hands shaking, I managed to get out of his bathrobe. I heard his footsteps halt just outside the bedroom doors. Heard him speak her name—two syllables full of bewilderment and pain. "Anna? My God… What… what are you doing here?"

Retrieving my over-robe gave me an excuse not to heed her reply. I lingered in the bedroom, unwilling to face the next moment. Unwilling to risk what I might see in John. Shock? Disbelief? Disillusion?

_Coward_, I thought, and made myself go out.

She was still speaking, her voice soft and full of reproach. Then she stopped. John's eyes met mine, pleading for some answer to make sense of this. I did not have one. _Trust in the Universe_ floated through my mind. The pit of my stomach turned ice-cold. What should I trust in now?

The room felt too small, the air too close. I had to leave. If I stayed, I would break down, and then my shame would be complete.

"I… I should go," I stammered, and left him. Left him alone with his anguish and confusion. And her.

I didn't remember the long walk to my quarters. Didn't remember arriving there, didn't remember fumbling in the dark for a candle because my wits were too scattered to call for lights. Didn't remember sinking to my knees on the cold, hard deck. I remembered only the tiny flame—and seeing, not the light, but the darkness all around it.

**ooOoo**

Some time later, a soft chime came at my door. Then again. Then Susan's voice, muffled as if she were trying not to be heard. "Delenn? Can you hear me? Are you awake in there?"

I couldn't answer. I could only stare at the candle, the tiny light that was almost gone.

Susan's voice came again, thick with what might have been fear. Or grief. Or confusion. Or all three. _Minbari see existence in threes_, came the thought. And now we were three: myself and John and Anna. Or perhaps they were two, and I was one. _Alone_. A strangled cry escaped me, hardly more than a whisper.

"Delenn?" Susan's voice again, sharp with anxiety. "Talk to me, dammit. If you can hear me, let me in. There's something I have to tell you."

I heard my own breathing, harsh and ragged. The candle guttered out. I hid my face against my knees, not uttering a sound.

She went away, finally. And I was alone in the black silence.

**ooOoo**

Half a day after Anna's reappearance—time enough for Dr. Franklin to fully confirm her identity—John called me to his office. I had not slept in what remained of the past night, and was not ready to face him. His message was curt and cold, a tone he had never used to me. I left my quarters, shaking inside but determined not to show it. How craven I had been—leaving him with no more words than _I should go_. No longer, I promised myself. I would face him and explain as best I could. And if she were there, I would deal with that as well.

My resolve nearly vanished when I reached the office and saw him, pacing the floor as if trying to wear a path in it. He must have heard me; he looked up, and I saw such pain in his eyes, I could have wept. Instinct drew me toward him—but then his face hardened, and I drew back before I had gone two steps.

It hurt like a lost limb, this distance between us. This wall. The connection with him that I never lost felt tenuous, like a dying heartbeat. My training came to my rescue then, the iron discipline of Minbari self-control. I would not break down. John wished to speak to me. I would listen and answer him. Whatever happened as a result would happen.

It was worse than I expected. He did not storm or rage; I would have preferred that to the controlled intensity of his anger. The anguish beneath was clear, and before long he could not keep from showing it. He said he cared for me, had started to love me. Past tense. As if these things had been true, but were no longer.

Was it only days ago he had kissed me aboard the White Star? Only last night I had seen his true face while he slept? But that was another Delenn, who had not fled when he needed me. Who had not wrongly told him his beloved wife was dead.

I made one last attempt to mend the breach, sinking down beside him on the bench where he had slumped in sadness and defeat. "John, you must believe me. I didn't know she was alive. We assumed she had died along with the rest of the crew of the _Icarus_… that only Morden had survived."

He took in what I said, and then asked the question I had prayed he would not ask.

What answer could I give him but the truth?

**ooOoo**

I do not know how long I stayed on that bench in John's office, my sight blurring with tears I could not shed. He had left me in anger. I had betrayed him. I had not meant to, had not even known I was, yet I had done it all the same. Anna was not dead. Though by all I knew, she should have been. And I had no answers for either of us.

_He will go with her,_ I thought. _He will go with her, and leave me, and they will kill him_. Fresh pain cut through my heart, keen as a blade. I loved him, wanted him safe, and so I had claimed certainty where I could not be certain. And now the fate from which I had wished to protect him had claimed him anyway. The irony was bitter, like ash in the mouth.

Had he even heard what I said as he left? "_I do love you… If you believe nothing else I ever say, please… please believe that_." He must believe it. If he did not, there was no hope. I had never lied outright to him, never said a word I knew was untrue. Not even when he wanted me to. I had seen it in his eyes when he asked the question that was seared into my brain: "_And had you known? Would you have told me?_"

How much he had wanted me to say yes. How much I had wanted to say it. _Yes, yes, of course I would have told you, I know you loved her, I would have let you go there after her and die if you chose_. He would have believed me because he wished to. Better that, than to know I had betrayed his trust.

He would have believed me. But I could not lie to him.

"It would depend."I could not look at him as I said it. _Breathe_, I told myself, and managed to go on. I told him the only truth I knew, yet the words rang hollow. "It would depend on… what she had become. Z'ha'dum is the homeworld of the Shadows. No one leaves there the same as when they arrived."

Something died in him then. I saw it go out of his eyes.

When next he spoke, his voice was low and hard. The voice of a man whose heart is torn in two, and who tells himself he is angry because it hurts a fraction less."You would have denied me the right to make that choice. How can you say that and ever expect me to trust you again?"

I could not bear for him to leave me that way. So I gave him the only thing I had left. I told him I loved him. He left me anyway. And I was alone with the bitter knowledge of what I had lost.

**ooOoo**

I went through the rest of that day, and the next, like a hologram of myself that made all the right motions and noises but felt nothing inside. I could not let myself feel. If I did, I would break down, and then I would be no use to anyone. As I passed the long hours in meetings, discussions and other diplomatic necessities that never stopped, I was acutely aware of each minute going by. Each second that brought no sight of, or word from, John.

Lennier knew I was distressed, but I kept from him how bad it was. He had heard of Anna Sheridan's unexpected arrival, and had carefully not questioned me about it. What little I told him, he accepted with his usual quiet grace. I was thankful for his presence, and his undemanding silence. Had he pressed me to talk, I could not have done so. My pain was too fresh, too raw. Words would come much later, if at all.

There came a time when all the meetings were over, all the reports read, and there was nothing left to do but go back to my quarters and listen to the silence. A wild idea seized me, of inviting Lennier in for tea and talking of abstractions—philosophy, music, his recent studies of the _Book of G'Qan_—until it grew so late that sleep might actually come. Or I would find Susan and—no, I could not be near Susan just now, with her knowledge and her too-perceptive eyes. I would go to John's quarters, brave his wrath and Anna's presence and… what? My frantic thoughts ground to a halt. What would I say to him? What could I say, with her there, that he would possibly believe?

My heart felt like stone. It was too late to go to him. Too late for anything but to wait and hope he would break his silence. Even if he damned me, at least it would be something.

"You have an early meeting with the Gaim ambassador tomorrow," Lennier said as we stopped outside my door. He did not look straight at me, but past me, giving me privacy to compose myself. I must be showing more in my face than I had thought.

I thanked him and wished him good evening. As my door swung open, he spoke again. "I beg pardon, Delenn," he said, "but… may I be of any help?"

I kept my face turned away from him. "There is nothing to be done. Do not distress yourself on my account. Sleep well, Lennier."

"But—"

"There is nothing to be done," I repeated, and went inside.

The door swung shut behind me. The air in my quarters felt close. I looked toward the Babcom unit. No message light. I clasped my hands to still their shaking, then went and fetched a candle. But meditation eluded me, as it had since Anna Sheridan's arrival. I had not felt so helpless since the terrible days of the Earth-Minbari War. There was no peace, no comfort without John. What had been between us was broken. I had broken it. And as the hours passed, it seemed ever more impossible that I could hope to mend it.

I snuffed out the candle. I would change for the night, make some tea, try to calm myself that way. I could not eat or even think of food. I went to my bedroom closet and snatched up the first robe I saw. Black silk. The color of mourning for many humans. _How fitting_, I thought, as I slowly wrapped myself in it.

The computer's voice broke the silence. "Message for Ambassador Delenn."

A heartbeat's pause. I could not move.

"Message for Ambassador Delenn."

My paralysis broke. I strode into the living room, one hand clutching my collar. "Yes?"

"Authorization needed to deliver time-delay message recorded by Captain Sheridan. Do you accept?"

Did I? Words swam in my consciousness. Time-delayed. He had recorded this message earlier, but had not sent it until now because…

Suddenly I felt cold. I drew my robe tighter around me. "Yes."

His face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, but I saw the strain behind it. _He is gone_, I thought dully. _He will tell me he has gone with her_. I waited, barely breathing.

"_Delenn… by the time you get this message, I will be at Z'ha'dum. With Anna."_

I swayed a little, as if he had struck me. I had known it would come, yet the blow hurt terribly. Lost in my pain, I missed his next few words. Then the unexpected caught my ear: Babylon Four, going forward in time. The Shadow War won, Centauri Prime devastated. A future I had said could not be changed…

_I _had said? In a future I knew nothing of… he had gone for this? Not because I failed him, or betrayed him, but—

"_You also told me not to go to Z'ha'dum. 'Do you understand me,' you said—'Do not go to Z'ha'dum!' And I began to wonder…what if that future happened because I listened to your warning and didn't go to Z'ha'dum? What if… what if I could prevent the fall of Centauri Prime and end the Shadow War by going there?"_

Another blow, this—hard as a denn'bok, and as unforgiving. He went because I told him not to. My words sent him there. Words I had not yet spoken, and now never would.

He was going on. Nearing the end. _"What I want is to stay alive, and be with you. But you were right before. This is about more than what I want. So I'm going. Even though it's almost certainly a trap…"_

Tears welled up. I could not hold them back. I loved him so much in that moment—how brave he was, how selfless. And he cared for me. He wanted to stay with me. He was not angry, had not turned from me…

And he was gone. To Z'ha'dum. Where he would die.

His final words should have been beautiful. I had waited so long to hear them, scarcely dared hope they might prove true. Now they were, and I knew it too late.

_ "I love you, Delenn. Goodbye."_

The message ended. His face froze on the screen. His dear face, every line of it that I loved beyond measure. I would never see it again. Never touch it, never hold him or hear his voice, be warmed by his smile or taste his lips on mine…

I sank to the floor. I did not stop crying for a very long time.

**ooOoo**

Lennier found me much later, huddled beneath the Babcom unit, staring at nothing. My sleeves were damp, my face stiff with dried tears. I heard him call my name as he rushed over, but I could not answer. When he tried to help me up, my stiff muscles shrieked and my legs would not obey me. He swept me up in his arms, carried me to the sofa, found a blanket and wrapped me in it. I could not stop shivering. And still, still I could not speak. I wanted to; I could see Lennier's distress at finding me so, and not to be able to ease it only added to my pain. But I could not break through my grief to give him so much as a word. I was lost, with no way back.

"Tea," he murmured, his voice taut with anxiety, and went to make some. I huddled on the sofa, unmoving. He came back with a steaming cup and set it on the table in front of me. "Drink," he said, as he braced me upright with one arm. "It will do you good."

I recognized the scent of _r'fani_, a mild sedative. "No," I said. The first word I had spoken in hours.

"You need it." He took the cup in his free hand. "You have had… a shock. You must rest, recover."

"No," I said again. Soft, desperate. _R'fani_ would ease my anguish, and I did not want that. I felt that if I let go of the moment, agonizing though it was, I would lose the reality of it. And along with it, the reality of John's last message to me, the precious words he had said. The last thing I would have of him to treasure.

Lennier gave me a long look. I saw sympathy in his eyes, so deep it made my torn heart turn over. He understood, I slowly realized. And he would not leave me to face this alone.

"A few sips," he said. Beneath his gentle tone was the roughness of unshed tears. "Then we will meditate together. If you will permit."

I managed a nod and three sips of the tea. Lennier fetched a candle, arranged it and some cushions, then helped me over to one. I had stopped shivering and could at least stumble along. He eased me down to sit, then lit the candle and sat beside me.

Silence fell, broken only by our breathing. In the bleak emptiness, Lennier's quiet presence was a faint comfort. So little against the depths of my sorrow, and yet so much. I listened to him breathe, watched the flame, and finally found it in me to tell him what had happened.

"He is gone, Lennier," I whispered. "Gone to Z'ha'dum. He loves me, and I will never see him again."

**ooOoo**

For the next seven days I fasted and prayed. As at the battle in Sector 83, I felt divided in two. One of me, when necessary, went through the motions of coping with events that struck us like an avalanche. The other cowered away from everything, especially the gaping absence I felt inside. I was told, later, that while I was sunk in grief in my quarters, Shadow vessels had surrounded the station but then inexplicably departed without firing a shot. Garibaldi's Starfury vanished along with them—one more blow among too many to absorb. The White Star John took to Z'ha'dum had been destroyed, reportedly in a thermonuclear blast, and it seemed impossible he could have survived.

_I_ survived on the hope, however faint, that the Vorlons might be persuaded to go to Z'ha'dum and rescue John if by some miracle he still lived. I knew how unlikely that miracle was, but the sheer stubborn need to believe would not let me give in. I had little else to believe in during those terrible days. Word of the catastrophe flew through the station, and our alliance began crumbling before our eyes. Susan and I fought to save it, but our efforts only emphasized how futile it was. We could not stop the non-aligned governments from recalling the bulk of their ships, nor change the belief of their terrified and furious representatives that continuing to fight was useless. They had no stomach for it without John to lead them, nor the honor to admit it.

The Vorlon, finally roused by my badgering, refused any aid. None for our alliance, none for John. _Irrelevant_, he said of John's life or death, while Lyta watched from beside him with sorrowful eyes as his callous words pierced me like daggers.

It was Lyta who offered the slim hope that sustained me: a proposal that she and Susan and I travel to Z'ha'dum to find John and rescue him. Mad as the notion was, it became my lifeline. After Susan called and told me of it, I was able to eat a little for the first time in a week. If we found him, I told myself, he would need my strength. I must be ready.

Accompanied by Lennier and a skeleton crew, we took a White Star and went. I did not dare contemplate the outcome of our journey. The thought of reaching Z'ha'dum only to learn that John _had_ died there left me so desolate, I could not face it. I spent much of the trip in what passed for meditation—mind and heart numb, frozen, waiting.

We came out of hyperspace as close to the planet as we dared. Lyta's talent enabled her to hide us from the Shadows for a time, but we all knew it would not last long. Lennier began scanning for any signal that might be an attempt at communication. I looked toward Lyta, who stood motionless by the forward viewport. She held herself stiffly, as if in pain. I went to her, asking if the Shadows were aware of us yet. She did not respond, and for a frightening moment I thought, _I have gone mad… no one will answer me, ever again_… "Lyta!" I heard fear in my voice. "Are they aware of us?"

I had reached her by now, stood close enough to see her face. When she opened her eyes, I saw they were black from edge to edge, like the chasms of deep space where no stars dwell. "Hurry," she said in a strangled whisper. "I can… feel them…"

She was suffering, I could see it. Trembling with the effort of holding our enemies' awareness at bay. I heard Susan speaking to Lennier, something about connecting to John's link, but most of my attention stayed on Lyta. The strain was too much; she could not hold this, would surely damage her own mind in the effort. And there was none to help her, unless…

Heart in my throat, I took her hand in both of mine. Knowing as I did so that her heightened state of awareness, coupled with my own religious-caste training, would permit her to draw on the power of my mind as if it were an extension of her own. I knew what I was risking; if the Shadows became aware of us, they could overwhelm my mind and hers, an unspeakable violation of the inmost self. Yet I could not watch her struggle alone, knowing she had come to try to save the man I loved.

The connection was instantaneous. A bone-deep chill spread over me, and for a moment I faltered in the midst of formless dark. Then a glow, warm red-gold, made itself felt. Lyta. A hearth-fire holding back the night. I added my own light to hers, and the darkness receded further. In the bright space we had created, I opened my heart to her and let her read my intention there.

_Yes_, came her response, and then a sense of casting outward. Searching. Calling. Pleading. _Send us word, and we will hear it. Think of me, and we will feel it. John… Can you hear me_?

Nothing. Only the silence of the void.

Then, something. Cold and dark. Ancient and hostile. Aware of us.

Beside me, Lyta shuddered. I could not take in the words she whispered, barely sensed Susan coming up next to us. My awareness was caught up in twin flares of cold fire against the blackness of space. They burned into my consciousness like ice on bare skin. The White Star went away; I was surrounded by the fire, and by a voice I had thought never to hear again. My father's voice, sad as all the sorrows of the Universe.

_You don't love him,_ the voice said. _You deceived him. You took away his right to choose his destiny. What love is built on a lie_?

The White Star shuddered under my feet. I felt it as if from far away. In my ears was a roaring, and the echo of my father's accusations. He was dead, had been dead for years, yet I found myself responding as if he stood before me with reproach in his eyes. _I didn't know she lived, Ava'mai. I didn't know…!_

_You didn't want to know_. And then, as abruptly as it had come, his voice was gone. My hearing and vision cleared, and I knew I was on the bridge of the White Star, hurtling through space. Away from Z'ha'dum.

Lennier, at the helm, looked pale and shaken. He had rigged a failsafe in case anything happened, to make as certain as he could that we survived this journey. He had kept monitoring the planet's surface until the last possible moment, he told me when I asked. There had been no signal of any kind. Lyta had felt nothing, either. Only the same endless silence I felt, but had refused to acknowledge.

I had to face it now. John was gone, and would never return.

**ooOoo**

I spent most of our journey back huddled on a bed in the White Star's crew quarters. Lennier, Susan and Lyta never left me during that time. One of them was always there, sitting silent near me, holding my hand. Their loving presence kept me sane. Without it, the pain of losing John would have driven me mad. As it was, I felt paralyzed. The Shadows were regrouping, we knew an assault on Babylon Five would come, but I no longer cared. Grief and guilt had hold of me, and would not let me go.

Again, I fasted and prayed. Lennier tried to persuade me to take a little water, but I did not heed him. His distress was just one more weight among many on my soul. I no longer believed what John had said in his final message—that he went to Z'ha'dum to change a terrible future. I knew he believed it, but it was not true. My father was right. I _had_ robbed him of choice when we first learned about Morden and John asked if there was any hope that Anna might still live. I should have said then that we did not know. I should have said then that I feared they might have spared her, as an ally or a tool. I should have let him choose for himself whether to go in search of her and die, or stay with me and live. But my own heart betrayed me. I loved him even then, though I lacked the courage to confess it—to him, or to myself. I loved him and wanted to protect him, and so stole from him something I had no right to take.

I deserved to lose him, I thought. My love was nothing if I would use it to choose what _I _wished, _for_ him. Worthless as ice shards or dead tundra grass. How could I atone for this? What was required of me to even begin to make this right?

Lennier grew so worried that he finally broke all protocol and went to Dr. Franklin. Stephen came to talk sense into me, as he saw it, but I would hear none of it. As with him during his own personal crisis, I was not ready to accept help. When he warned me that I was endangering my life, it seemed like an answer to my crippling doubts. Perhaps my death was required for what I had done. I would keep fasting, I told him; and if John were truly dead, then I would join him in the place where no shadows fall.

Stephen went away with a grave face, knowing he had failed. Another guilt for me to shoulder. By this time, I almost welcomed it. If pain was all I could feel, then I would wallow in it. Looking back, I think I believed that if I suffered enough, somehow everything would change. Time itself would alter, and I could do things over. Madness, of course—but at the time, it made a strange sort of sense. I had lost so many in my life: my mother, my father. Dukhat. Lennon, who had died on the failed peace mission during the Earth-Minbari War. Branmer, irrevocably changed in spirit by that same war. And now John. Surely the Universe could not be so capricious as to take all these from me for no reason. Somehow, somewhere, expiation must be needed. I would give it if only I understood how.

My salvation came from Stephen in the end. A few days after the fruitless rescue journey to Z'ha'dum, he summoned me to John's quarters. There was something I should see there, he said.

I did not want to go. But I managed to dress and get myself there. Poor Stephen deserved at least that much from me.

The walk to Blue Sector seemed long, and I often had to stop and rest against a bulkhead. I had not eaten or drunk for so long, I was light-headed and weak. Twice, I almost fell down. The second time, Mr. Allen happened to be passing, and he caught me. There was such concern on his face that it almost made me cry. I knew he did not believe me when I said I was all right. Only when I told him I was meeting Dr. Franklin did he cease insisting on accompanying me to my destination.

"I'm sorry about the Captain," he said, stammering in his awkwardness, before he let me go. I thanked him hastily and turned away. His kindness undid me; I felt I did not deserve it any more than I deserved John to love me.

Stephen was waiting when I arrived. He had found an entry in John's personal log that he felt I would want to see. He gave me the datacrystal, said he would wait outside, and left the room.

I stared down at the crystal, then closed my fist around it. The crystal's edges felt sharp against my skin. Whatever was on it, it could not matter now. Slowly, I went to the Babcom unit and put the crystal in place. Watching it would give me something to look at other than John's quarters, with boxes scattered around where Stephen had been sorting his effects. My memories of this place could not be packed away into boxes. Though I would have given a great deal to be able to do that, if it would have hurt less.

The screen lit up. John's face was on it. He looked as if he had been through many long days, yet dared for a moment to be glad of a respite. _"Personal log,"_ he said. The sound and sight of him were pain and pleasure all at once. _"May fourteenth, 2260."_

I remembered that day. I had spent it in MedLab, recovering from a knife wound in my back and dreamily recalling what John had told me during the _nafak'cha_ the day before: _I can no longer imagine my world without you in it._

I knew what my world was like without him in it. Blank, joyless, no color anywhere. I swallowed hard, halting my own dark thoughts with an effort. Stephen had wanted me to see this for a reason. I made myself listen.

John was talking of the break from Earth. Of what it had cost him, and how frightened he was. _"The job now is to turn this around and make it into something positive. My dad always told me that's the only way you deal with pain. You don't surrender, you don't fight it… you turn it into something positive." _He laughed a little, and his face turned tender. _"He used to say, 'If you're falling off a cliff, you may as well try to fly. You've got nothing to lose…'"_

His words echoed within me. _Don't surrender… don't fight it… something positive_. Somewhere in my personal darkness, a glimmer of light appeared. A single candle flame, bright against the void.

He said my name, gentle as a caress. What came next disturbed me at first—he spoke of the war, of killing Minbari, of watching friends die at Minbari hands. And then: _"And now here I am, in love with one of them. For a long time, I thought about not saying anything… but the moment my heart crossed that line, there wasn't much I could do but see it through."_

He paused. At the wonder in his face, the little candle flame glowed brighter. _"I've fallen off one hell of a cliff,"_ he said. _"But when I look in her eyes… I let myself think, maybe I really can fly."_

The recording ended there. I reached out and touched his image. The screen was smooth and cold, but almost I felt the illusion of warmth. _When you are falling off a cliff, you may as well try to fly._ I was falling; had been for days. Now I felt as if a strong wind had lifted me and would carry me to safety.

He had given me the answer. I would match him, gift for gift.


	41. Chapter 41

**Author's Note: **This section covers the rest of "The Summoning" and roughly half of "Falling Toward Apotheosis". Some dialogue is quoted from those episodes. As usual, gapfillers and additions are my own. Stitching together from Delenn's POV the on-screen montage of scene fragments in the Zocalo, culminating in Sheridan's dramatic reappearance, posed an interesting challenge for me as a writer. I hope you enjoy what I came up with.

The section title is from the last stanza of Poem IX in _Last Poems_, by A. E. Housman (1922): "The troubles of our proud and angry dust/ Are from eternity, and shall not fail;/ Bear them we can, and if we can, we must./ Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale."

**Part 42—"Shoulder the Sky"**

The Rangers came at my summons—as many as could reach Babylon Five by the appointed day. In the interim, I consulted with Lennier and Susan, and we worked out our plans. By the time the Rangers gathered, I was ready for them. _When you are falling off a mountain, _I told them_, you may as well try to fly. _We would take the White Star fleet to Z'ha'dum and strike a deadly blow against the Shadows. With darkness before us and destruction behind, we would take the war to the enemy, in hopes that our sacrifice would give others a chance to prevail.

They listened in somber silence. And in that room aboard Babylon Five, I felt their steely resolve. We would fly yet or die in the attempt.

I set our fleet's departure for seven days hence and went to put my affairs in order. I spoke briefly with a sorrowful Draal, recorded a farewell message for Mayan and another for Hedronn, left instructions with Rathenn for rebuilding the Rangers should the worst come to pass, and settled what I could of the requests that had come across my desk in recent days. When Susan came to me with a proposal to take a White Star and go find more of the First Ones, I readily agreed, and sent Marcus with her as a translator. (Susan had taught herself a little Adronado, an effort that touched me deeply but fell far short of fluency. Not that I would have dreamed of telling her so. Marcus was only too happy to help, the potential for battle situations being a convenient excuse.)

My other motive for sending Marcus, I could scarcely confess even to myself. Having just clawed my way out of despair over my lost love, part of me wanted to give these two people I cared for as much time together as I could. I knew Marcus loved Susan, and it seemed to me she was more drawn to him than she acknowledged. _Someone_ should have a chance to find joy, I thought, even in the midst of the uncertainty and fear that plagued us.

Marcus was as good as his word, arriving within the prescribed two hours at the docking bay for the shuttle that would take them to the White Star. I met him at the bay door, where I had come to see them off. "Don't look so worried," he told me gently. "So long as any of us are still breathing, there's hope. Your people taught me that, you know."

I gave him a sober look as we entered the bay together. "Don't risk yourselves any more than necessary."

"I never do," he replied with a jaunty smile. I tried to share his confidence, but my heart wasn't in it. I did not like the thought of them leaving, and it was more than what John had called "the curse of the CO." I had lost too much, too recently, and it weighed on me still.

Susan came to meet us, and we went over last-minute details. "Four days," I told her as Marcus nodded farewell and headed for the shuttle. "I cannot spare you any longer than that."

"We'll be back in time. No way I'm going to miss a good fight." She flashed me a tight grin. "And we'll bring back allies. Somehow, some way—if they're out there, we'll find them."

The words _good luck_ stuck in my throat. Suddenly it seemed too much even to bid her farewell. In the next few moments, she would walk away, board the shuttle and disappear from Babylon Five. This dear friend I had not even known three years ago, who had moved into my heart and taken up residence there. And who, in her way, loved John as much as I did. She was precious in herself, and precious as a link to him. Whether I would see her again lay in the hands of the Universe. And I was not in a trusting mood.

My mute stillness brought concern to her face. "Delenn?" She laid a hand on my arm. "Are you all right?"

I embraced her then, close and hard. Two words were all I could manage in her ear, a whisper so faint I was not sure she heard it: "Come back."

I felt rather than saw her nod. "That's a promise," she answered, her own voice none too steady. "And Susan Ivanova never breaks a promise."

**ooOoo**

Time hung heavy after their departure. I worried about them every hour, it seemed—and also about G'Kar, who had gone in search of Mr. Garibaldi but had not checked in for some days. With the assault on Z'ha'dum drawing nearer, I could spare no more Anla'shok to go and find him. Fortunately for my sanity, Lennier and I had plenty of work persuading other races who had earlier joined the war effort to join this final battle, in order to give us the greatest chance of success. The more ships we had, the harder we could strike, and the better the odds our sacrifice would be worth it. Far fewer agreed than I wished, but it would have to do.

The Vorlons were not among our successes. A full day and much of a second passed without even a reply from their ambassador to my request for ships—a dismaying reality in itself, as well as a stunning act of discourtesy from a race meant to be our strongest ally. Part of me wanted to beard him in his den and storm at him until I forced an answer, but better sense counseled otherwise. I would risk much yet gain nothing. The Vorlon had already made clear his contempt for me, for John, and for the alliance we had forged against seemingly impossible odds. If I annoyed him sufficiently, he might harm or even kill me—and I was not willing to die if nothing good would come of it.

Lyta was the only one of us from whom he had not held himself arrogantly aloof. He treated her callously, but he needed her services. If anyone might offer me some insight as to why the Vorlon government was not leaping at the chance to take the war to their enemy's homeworld, Lyta might. Late as it was, I felt I could waste no time, and went to see her.

She received me with reluctance. Upon entering her quarters, I realized why. Her room had been stripped of everything save a mattress with a single, thin white coverlet. There was no other furniture, no pictures or books or personal items of any kind. No food, nor any means of preparing it. Just bare walls and floor. Not even a pillow where she slept.

I was so shocked, I couldn't stop myself from asking what happened. The Vorlon had commanded it, she told me, with taut self-control that only emphasized her distress. Even the mattress was a grudging concession; all else was a "distraction" from their work. Appalled, I could think of nothing to say. The bare room and the rationale behind it were bad enough; worse was Lyta's apparent acquiescence to it. She neither liked nor wanted this state of affairs; her tone and body language told me that much, even as she said the opposite. I knew her to be a woman of strength and courage—yet she had given in to this. How badly _was_ the Vorlon using her? "But…" It was hard to think how to ask what I suspected in a way that would not shame her or add to her pain. "He cannot force you to live like this, can he?"

She glanced away before she spoke, and I knew the answer. "Yes," she said quietly. "He can."

Our eyes met for an endless moment. _Go from here_, I thought. _Leave his service and go to Tuzanor, where you can rest and heal and be safe from reprisal. My clan will take you in and protect you for my sake._ I said none of it. Barriered as she was against casual telepathic contact, I could not know if she heard me anyway.

Then she continued, with a brittle formality that told me it would have made no difference. "Was there something you wanted, Ambassador?"

With effort, I pushed my emotions aside, recalled to my purpose in coming. I told her the Vorlon had never replied to my request for ships, and I did not believe it when she told me he was simply "busy." She didn't believe it herself, and quickly abandoned that explanation. "I think the Vorlons have plans of their own," she said slowly—then turned and moved a little away from me, as if needing space to come to some decision. Not an easy one, either. "There's… there's something going on. Something they haven't told us yet."

I waited, but she said no more. "Do you have any idea…?"

She didn't, and was afraid to ask. Even if she had not said so, I saw it in her eyes. "I don't think they care anymore what happens to us, Delenn," she went on. "I think the game just got bigger than that."

What did that mean? My heart raced as I sought possibilities. No Vorlon ships for our fleet, nor any prospect of them. No apparent desire to attack Z'ha'dum, even though the ancient enemy's homeworld should be an irresistible target. I found myself recalling the brief, painful conversation with the Vorlon in the Zen garden less than three weeks ago. _He has opened a door_, the Vorlon had said of John. Dismissing all question of his survival, dishonoring his sacrifice. John's life had been a tool to be used. _We _were tools to be used; Lyta, apparently, most of all. But for what purpose, if not to strike a decisive blow against the Shadows? What door had been opened that the Vorlons meant to walk through?

We had to know. _I_ had to know, for the sake of the Rangers and all those who had joined us. "I know this is hard for you," I told Lyta softly, "but you must try and find out what they are planning."

She spun away from me and strode across the empty room. "I can't! You do not know what this new Vorlon is like, Delenn, or the things he can do—" She raised a shaking hand to her mouth, as if to press back more words before they spilled over.

I hated what I was about to do. But I had no choice, with lives at stake. I went to her and gently touched her arm. "Lyta… in less than seven standard days, our ships are leaving for Z'ha'dum." My hands moved upward to cradle hers. Through the touch of our bare skins, she would read everything I was feeling. I wanted her to. I wanted her to understand that I knew what I was about to ask of her and loathed the necessity for it. And also to understand just how little alternative we had. "We cannot walk into this blindly. If there's something going on, we need to know what it is."

A heartbeat's pause. She didn't answer. I pressed her hand between both of mine. "Please…"

She looked at me then, eyes shrouded in fear. The silence between us seemed to stretch for eternity. Finally, she let out a breath and gave a bare nod. "I'll do what I can."

Relief flooded through me, along with awe at her courage. In that moment, she truly was a sister of my heart. I shared that with her too, in hopes it would give her some solace. Whatever she might tell me, I vowed silently as I left, I would not waste her efforts. Nor would I permit the mysterious plans of the Vorlons to forestall me. John's death had indeed opened a door—quite possibly the door to survival for billions of people. Nothing mattered more than that.

**ooOoo**

Troubling rumors reached us over the next twenty-four hours. G'Kar was said to have been captured by the Centauri; no one knew if he was alive or dead. Wild speculation flew through the station about Garibaldi's recent return; Mr. Allen had found him in a lifepod, jettisoned from a transport ship just before it exploded, and he was said to be unable to recall anything of the weeks since his disappearance. Physically, he appeared unharmed. As to his mental state, that was an open question. Stephen was keeping him in MedLab, not yet ready to declare him fit for duty. I meant to go and see him—he was a dear friend, and his safe return seemed a miracle—but there was so much to do as our departure loomed, I could not find the time. He would understand, I told myself. Garibaldi of all people knew what it was like to be so overwhelmed that one could barely keep one's head above water.

I heard nothing from Lyta concerning the Vorlons, which worried me as well. I hoped she had merely not yet found the right time to broach the subject, but I couldn't help fearing the worst. Once I nearly called Rathenn, intending to arrange safe passage for Lyta to Minbar aboard a White Star, but doubt forestalled me. Frightened and unhappy as she was with the Vorlon, Lyta had not chosen to leave him. She had chosen to stay, to do what she could for our cause. Who was I to gainsay that? I had already chosen for one person I loved, and look how that had turned out. How could I even contemplate doing it again? So I waited, and worried, and asked Lennier to keep an ear out for trouble. It was surely coming; the only question was when, and how bad it would get.

Complicating matters further was the sobering reality that not everyone agreed with what I was doing. Some saw the White Star fleet as Babylon Five's last defense; others talked of compromise with the Shadows, some sort of pact whereby we agreed not to oppose them and they agreed to let us live for as long as it suited them. The uselessness of that option had not sunk in everywhere; there were those who believed that if we backed down, the Shadows would look elsewhere for targets. I did not know how much difficulty these people might cause, and I wanted to be prepared.

Ambassador Lethke brought me warning of just how deep the opposition ran. Several races among the non-aligned worlds wanted no more of the fight against the Shadows; with John dead on Z'ha'dum, they had lost all heart. Ambassador Trkider, as leader of this faction, had sounded Lethke out about joining a large gathering in the Zocalo, where they hoped to rally others—especially humans—to their cause. Lethke demurred, at which point the others ceased to speak to him. He did not know when the rally was to be held, only that it would be that same day. When he asked how I intended to stop them, I told him I didn't—but that I would speak there as well, and let the truth tend to itself. Brave words, I thought as he left—but his news chilled me. The Drazi and my own people had a complicated history, and Trkider viewed me with open distrust. That he was leading the opposition did not bode well.

I sent Lennier to the Zocalo to keep watch and busied myself as best I could. Every minute passed like an hour, every hour like a day. I knew I should think what to say, but could not muster the concentration. I could not lose this chance to stop the Shadows' assaults. If we did not act, billions of innocents would die. The thought made me shudder, and I paced around my quarters in a futile attempt to calm myself. By the time Lennier sent word that the rally was beginning, I was vibrating off the bulkheads. A lifetime of discipline came to my rescue. I found a still, calm place inside and dredged it up. Then, clarity restored, I went to the Zocalo.

The crowd was sizable, and growing larger as I met Lennier in the main portion of the bazaar. We had hardly been there five seconds when Trkider began to speak. He stood in the middle of a walkway high up over the Zocalo, placed to be seen as clearly as possible. A born showman, full of bluster and bombast, he was exquisitely aware of how to use both to their best effect. "Everyone listen! Listen to us," he shouted. "There is something that you don't know. We must tell you the truth, because the Minbari—" his voice turned scathing as his gaze raked across us in the throng— "never tell anyone the whole truth."

Anger surged in me, fueled by fear. _Us_, he had said. _We_. With a flare of unease, I recognized Kel F'shod beside him, a senior member of the Hyach legation. The Hyach ambassador was absent—but she had been among the more reluctant to add ships to the assault fleet. If Kel's prominent presence at the rally meant she had given it her tacit approval…

I heard my name, snarled by Trkider like an epithet, and listened more closely. _Conspiring_, he said. _Risking all of your lives by organizing an attack on the homeworld of the Shadows…_ As he continued, the full extent of what I was up against struck me for the first time. "Why are they doing this?" he asked, in a tone that implied he knew the answer. "I'll tell you why. Because the Minbari, and their Vorlon masters, wish to weaken the other races. They are more powerful than we—for now—and they don't want that to change. What better way to perpetuate their power than by sacrificing us on a fool's crusade?" His voice rose, echoing from the struts and girders above. "Attack Z'ha'dum! It is suicide! But—" he dropped to a penetrating near-whisper. "…Not for the Minbari. Their precious White Stars may lead the battle, but they are also best equipped to survive it. The rest of you, whom they have deceived into contributing ships—you will bear the brunt. You will do the dying. And all they will accomplish—" his voice rose again— "all they will accomplish is your deaths, and the rousing of the Shadows against us all." He pounded the gantry for emphasis. "Against us all!"

A murmur ran through the crowd. Most looked uneasy, a few angry. Trkider had conveniently forgotten the sacrifice of the _M'Vili_, or cynically chose to ignore it. His accusations were so monstrous, I felt at a loss to refute them. What could I say that would not give them weight by the simple fact that I was answering them? Yet I had come here to speak the truth, so speak I would.

Trkider was talking again. "The Shadows have withdrawn… we can find a peaceful solution… if there is another pointless attack against Z'ha'dum, they will destroy us all…"

I had to shout to be heard over the growing mutters of the crowd. "They will come anyway!"

His furious gaze pinned me where I stood. "You don't know that!"

But I did. From history, from experience—I knew it as I knew my own name. "They _will _come," I said again. "They will come, and they will destroy—unless we make certain they cannot. The White Star fleet—"

"The White Star fleet is a menace!" He was raging now. "A provocation! A target begging to be hit! Send it back to Minbari space, to protect your own precious lives against the enemy you were unwise enough to anger! We will speak with the Shadows. We will extend the hand of peace. Go and make war on your own behalf, Delenn." His gaze raked the crowd, seeking out humans among them. "For we all know how much the Minbari enjoy making war. Don't we?"

Another murmur ran through the throng, harsher and uglier. A few nearby humans turned toward Lennier and me. Their eyes held loathing I had not seen on human faces for more than thirteen years.

I gazed at them, and at the others around us—Drazi, Narn, Hyach, Pak'mara. "We are fighting for all your lives. Many races together, fighting to save many races together—humans and Minbari, Narn and Drazi, Hyach and Brakiri and Pak'mara and Gaim. We fight a common enemy, so that all our peoples may live. Have you not seen this yourselves? Have you not been part of it?" My voice broke. "Did John Sheridan teach you nothing? Will you make his sacrifice meaningless by giving in to fear?"

"Not fear," came a new voice from up on the walkway. Kel, the Hyach attaché. He spoke calmly and smoothly compared to Trkider. "Prudence." He stepped forward, and Trkider faded back. I had the sudden, disquieting sense that they had orchestrated this, used Trkider's bombast to provoke my own impassioned response, precisely so that Kel could refute it in tones of sweet reason. "It has been a thousand years since the last Shadow war. If we do nothing to provoke them, it may be another thousand years before they move again." He gave me a pitying look, then leveled the killing blow. "We cannot allow the fleet to leave for Z'ha'dum."

The deck seemed to drop from under my feet, so profound was my sense of betrayal. Lethke had warned me they would try to get ships to drop out… but that they might attempt to prevent the White Stars from going…! "That fleet is our only chance!"

"Don't listen to her!" Trkider, unable to quell his rage. "She must be silenced!"

The next few moments were confusion and terror. I heard muttering, sensed motion too near for comfort. A Drazi face in the crowd, contorted with rage; a scaled hand reaching toward me with hostile intent. Then Lennier, moving faster than thought. One quick strike of his hand and the hostile Drazi went down. Someone grabbed me from the other side; I turned and saw a human male twice my size. His hand was clamped around my arm. Lennier whirled and struck; the human let go and staggered backward.

I shoved off another would-be attacker and dropped into a fighting stance. Beside me, Lennier did the same. I shouted up toward the walkway, determined to be heard. "You are acting out of fear!"

"And you are acting out of grief and loss!" Kel again, his mask of reason slipping. "If Sheridan has died, why not the rest of us? You cannot attack Z'ha'dum. No one has ever succeeded. Ships go there and never return. Lives are wasted." He was pleading now. "Sheridan died trying to attack Z'ha'dum. No one who goes there comes back alive…"

His words trailed off into meaningless noise. Another sound had caught my ear, off to one side of the crowd. A murmur of disbelief. A word I recognized, whispered over and over. A name…

Something moved at the far end of the walkway. Around me, the crowd went silent. A tall figure in black and grey came into view.

The world stopped. Everything else faded away. I saw only him.

_Impossible, _I thought. This was some cruel illusion… some trick of the Shadows, some monstrous joke by a Universe gone mad. I wanted to shut my eyes, yet I could not look away. _If only,_ my heart whispered. _Oh, if only…_

Not a sound could be heard in the Zocalo. Up overhead, Kel and Trkider were staring wide-eyed at the apparition in front of them. "Captain," Trkider stammered. "We're sorry… we thought you were dead…"

"I was. I'm better now."

His voice. Sweet song of the Universe, it was his voice, I could not mistake it for anyone else's… Deep inside, I felt a spark of hope. A fragile thing, too fragile to dare believe… but oh, if only…

His gaze swept the crowd, found mine. As our eyes met, I _knew_. No illusion. No trick. The spark of hope turned to flame, a candle burning in the darkness.

"The ambassador is correct," John said, still looking down at me. I saw tenderness and pride in his face. Then he gazed out over the crowd. "I went to Z'ha'dum. I've fought the enemy, and I've killed many of them. They're not invincible, and they're not gods. They can be beaten…"

I drank in the sight of him, here and alive. He had come back. Come back from the dead…

I had to be with him. Close enough to touch, to know he was real with my own hands. He was rallying the people now, his voice rising, charged with determination and stubborn hope. I looked at Lennier, but could say not one word. I could only obey the impulse to move. I let my feet carry me toward the steps that led up to the walkway.

People moved aside to let me pass. They sensed rather than saw me; all their attention was on John and the miracle of his return. I reached the steps and started up. Scattered phrases came to me: "…We can end this… We can fight and we can win, but only if we do it together…" _Together_, I thought, and kept climbing.

I reached the top of the stairs, turned the corner onto the walkway. My steps slowed. Sudden fear seized me. _Was_ he real? What if I went to him and touched only air, saw him vanish under my hands like smoke?

He was gesturing toward the crowd, shouting across the Zocalo: "Can I count on you? Will you stand together?" They roared their approval. He looked fiercely joyful at the sound, then turned his head and saw me.

I don't remember deciding to move. I simply went, drawn as if to a lodestone. I had wronged him, mourned him, wished myself dead along with him… but at this moment, none of that mattered. All that mattered was what I saw in his eyes.

My hands found his as I reached him. He pulled me close, looking at me as if I were shelter in a blizzard, water after days of thirst.

My voice shook. "I thought I would never see you again."

"I'll never leave you, Delenn." His grip on me was warm and solid. Real. "Not if the whole universe stood between us."

I wanted to kiss him and never stop. Show my love for him right there, in front of everyone. But I couldn't. Things lay unspoken between us that must be spoken. Until they were, I could not fully rejoice in his return.

I leaned against him, my forehead pressed to his cheek. The touch brought comfort and pain. Somehow, some way, I had to mend what I had broken. And I did not know how.

**ooOoo**

The news John brought us only added to my sense of a universe turned inside out. So many certainties were swept away, and I had nothing to cling to. The Vorlons—all my life benevolent guardians and protectors of the younger races—had become a mere reflection of the enemy. Bent on supremacy over and vengeance against their ancient foes, they were attacking every planet they could reach that the Shadows had touched. Destroying whole worlds full of innocents whose only crime was following their leaders, who themselves were mere frightened pawns in a deadly game of chess between malevolent giants. I thought of Kosh—the one I always associated with that name—and my heart tore. He had cared for us, risked himself for us, even loved us a little. Surely he would not have condoned this. Then I remembered the Inquisitor, and no longer felt so sure.

Now I knew what Lyta had been afraid to ask the Vorlon about. My anger against him burned high as a bonfire; if I could have broken him apart with a denn'bok, I would have been sorely tempted to do so. His people had turned traitor, to us and to their ancient trust as guardians. We were truly on our own now; facing two foes instead of one, both of whom outmatched us in power as a pride of mountain cats outmatches a baby gokk. Yet stop them we must, because there was no one else. Not even Lorien, First of the First Ones, who seemed unable to offer anything beyond a sad shake of his venerable head at the actions of the Shadows and Vorlons alike.

Lorien, in fact, was a puzzle to me. The Eldest of all sentient beings, the closest I would ever meet to the embodiment of the conscious Universe, he surely possessed power and wisdom beyond our imagining. Yet he appeared to do little with either on our behalf. Unlike Mr. Garibaldi, I did not suspect his motives; I could sense he wished us well, and the violence perpetrated by the Shadows and the Vorlons clearly dismayed him. Why did he not do more to help end it? Perhaps it was enough that he had brought John back; what precise role he had played in that, I was not certain, but I knew I owed John's life to him. I should have felt grateful, and at times I did. Other times, the best I could manage was an odd blend of awe and annoyance. It would have been _useful_, I thought, to get something out of Lorien besides sober looks and cryptic utterances. Unable to manage this, we made do with what we had—and in private moments, I prayed to whatever Source might hear me that what we had would be enough.

Days passed, and I had no opportunity to speak with John alone. Preparations for what had become a two-front war consumed us, and even though his miraculous return had effectively silenced opposition, our resources still fell desperately short of the need. Each fresh attack we could not answer was another blow to be painfully absorbed. We were the last hope now. Every planet destroyed, every haven lost, every refugee ship that came to Babylon Five, affirmed it. Besieged and beset, we struggled on. An agitated Garibaldi was the one to finally voice the question on all our minds—_for how long_?—but no one had an answer.

Amid all this, I told myself I had no time for personal concerns. In truth, I was afraid. Now that the euphoria of John's return had worn off, I felt assailed by doubts. I knew he loved me, and I him… but the broken trust between us required more than that. I had never acknowledged my fault to him, let alone atoned for it; I had not had the chance. Could he forgive me for what I had done? Did I deserve him to?

If he couldn't, I would lose him again. More painfully this time, having him alive and well and near, yet forever separate from me. Worry and guilt kept me from sleep and sapped my strength until finally I could bear it no longer. In the early evening, several days after his return, I set aside yet another review of logistics for our growing fleet and went to John's quarters.

I knew he was there. I had asked Susan to make sure, though I had not said why. She must have seen something in my face, because the question she meant to ask died on her lips. Instead, with a quiet look of sympathy, she called John and asked for clarification of some minor point in the upcoming Babcom bulletin. Then, her call concluded, she turned to me. "Go," she said softly. "It'll be all right."

Now, in the hall outside John's door, I wished vainly for her confidence. He had sounded so weary over the comm channel, as if weighed down by everything. We had put so much on his shoulders, and I could not help him. Not unless I mended the breach between us.

_I love him_, I thought, to give myself courage. Then I raised a hand and pressed the bell.

**ooOoo**

Afterward, when all was said that should have been, I could have laughed at my own foolishness. Did I hold his love so lightly, that I feared he would not forgive me? I still wasn't sure I deserved it. But forgiveness is a grace, a gift of love. I had forgotten that until John reminded me.

He had let it all go, he said. He meant everything that held him to life—experiences, memories, emotional ties. The Shadow war. Anna and his farewell to her, the one he had never been able to say. He kept only one thing, he told me: _the image of your sweet face_. I had brought him back. He died because of me, and now he lived because of me.

There was symmetry to that. Sheltered in the circle of his arms, I could almost believe it.

I raised my head to look at him. He brushed something wet from my cheek. "Don't cry, Delenn," he said softly.

Until that moment, I had not realized I was. I could not say what was in my heart; I felt too much for words. So I spoke through a kiss.

When we broke apart at last, he looked down at me as if he were memorizing every line of my face. "What?" I asked, my voice hardly more than a whisper.

"I'm just remembering how beautiful you are." His smile held sadness; it made me afraid. "I don't know what's going to happen," he said. "But as long as you're with me… I guess I can face anything."

I rested my head on his shoulder. His lips brushed my hair, and I raised my head to kiss him again. Long and deep, as if it would never end.

"I will be with you always," I murmured when finally we broke apart. "Forever and ever."

His arms tightened around me, as if to hold us both safe from whatever was yet to come.


	42. Chapter 42

**Author's Note: **This chapter covers the remainder of "Falling Toward Apotheosis". (Yes, including the engagement-ring scene.) As always, some dialogue is quoted from the episode; scene additions and gapfillers are my own.

I've always wondered a few things about this episode. Why wasn't Delenn in on the get-the-Vorlon planning session, and what possessed her to show up when she did at that final confrontation in the cargo bay? Also, did she and John ever finish the watching ritual—and if not, why not? This section gave me a chance to work out some answers. I hope you enjoy them.

**Part 43—"Twenty Years"**

We stayed together well into the night, sharing a simple meal and talking of anything that wasn't the war, the Shadows, the Vorlons or Z'ha'dum. Memories, experiences, moments from our childhoods burnished by the passage of years. The time he climbed a tree on a dare when he was ten years old, fell out of it and broke his arm in two places. "Couldn't play baseball that whole summer. I was so mad at Lizzie. She brought me lemonade every day she was grounded, though. That helped me get over it."

"And the next summer? Did you play?" I could see him in my mind's eye, a slender red-haired boy in tight-fitting garments and the strange headgear called a "baseball cap," swinging the narrow bat while he waited at "home plate" to hit the tiny white ball.

"Did I ever. We won the championship that year. I hit the first home run of the season. The crack of the bat against that ball was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard." He smiled tenderly down at me where we sat together on the sofa. "Until I heard your voice, in the council room here two years ago."

I nestled closer to him. It was my turn now, so I told him my own summer story: a long-ago day when I decided to look for the magic _senna_ bird that was said to live at the peak of Grandmother Mountain. "I was six cycles old, and convinced the mountain was growing with every step I took. How else was it that the peak never got any closer?"

He laughed at that. "I can just imagine you. All big eyes and determination, refusing to give in to sore feet until they just wouldn't carry you anymore." He held out a hand, waist-high. "What were you, about this tall?"

"About that, yes. My father found me an hour before sundown and carried me home. It took days for the blisters on my feet to go away. As soon as they did, I tried again. This time, I brought food—and Mayan—with me." I chuckled softly. "We lasted until sunset. By then we had eaten all the dried fruit and drunk every drop of water. We were very late for dinner, and tucked into bed with a scolding for having frightened everyone by disappearing for most of the day."

"Stubborn," he said, and kissed my forehead. "So what does a magic _senna_ bird do, anyway?"

"It grants wishes."

"And what were you wishing for?"

It took me a moment to answer. Then, quietly: "For my mother to come home." I looked up at him, part of me reveling in the fact that he was here for me to do so. "I have never told anyone that before."

His eyes were suspiciously bright as he caressed my cheek. "I'm sorry."

I traced his lips with my fingers. "It was a long time ago."

We shared another kiss, tender with the weight of old sorrows. My hand drifted to his chest. His heart beat strongly under my palm.

Drained from the emotional shocks of the past several days, I fell asleep curled against him in the sofa corner. He roused me gently just shy of midnight, and hesitantly asked if I wanted to stay. I declined, with regret. I was not yet ready even to think about completing the watching ritual; I needed a little time to fully accept that we were together again. He understood, and parted from me at my own door with a kiss that left no doubt how much he loved me. I watched him walk away and felt the last tiny break in my wounded heart begin to heal. Faith _had_ managed; his in me, if nothing else. We were not done with troubles, and there seemed less guarantee of survival now than when we merely faced the Shadows—but whatever came, we would face it together.

**ooOoo**

Meditation, the next morning, carried me where I had half-expected: to memories of the night Anna returned. Despite John's forgiveness, my own cowardice that night still shamed me, and I suspected it always would. Yet he came back from death for my sake. His heart had chosen—as mine had, long ago. Was there any need, then, to continue the watching ritual we had begun? Or was I in uncharted territory, learning my own heart and following it through events rather than through a rite designed to make certain I dealt honestly with both of us?

_True to self, true to others_. The Minbari proverb floated through my mind. Then another phrase, gleaned from a play I had read once at Sinclair's urging. _This above all; to thine own self be true. Thou canst not then be false to any man_. Different words, from different peoples and different traditions, yet expressing the same reality. What did I know, then, to be true about myself and John?

Slowly, a memory took shape. The long night aboard the White Star, on the way to Ganymede. How exhausted John was, how vulnerable. And how trusting toward me, that the mere touch of my hand enabled him finally to sleep. His face, the lines of care smoothing out of it, was suddenly vivid in my mind. I had eased him then, and would have counted it no sacrifice to lose every hour of my own rest simply to ensure his. _Anything_, I had thought as I listened to him breathe quietly through the passing hours, _anything to take your trouble away_.

I was there for him. And he knew it without question, before any word of love was spoken between us. Love unspoken bound us even then.

The memory of the White Star gave way to another, one I had been dreading. Yet strangely, I felt no fear of what was coming as the images arose. John asleep, half-clothed under his coverlet. Myself on the edge of his bed, watching as his true face emerged. Remembered joy caught hold of me, strong as mountain winds in spring. I had seen who he truly was and recognized the other half of my soul. Despite what came after, that moment remained.

Unexpectedly, I found myself recalling the night he had watched over me, after the Markab died. I had felt so safe with him there after days of grief and terror. His presence was a promise of hope, a reminder that more existed than suffering and fear and untimely death. That there was life still, and all that life is heir to: sorrows and joys and everything in between, intertwined like melody and harmonies.

It came to me that I no longer needed the watching ritual; I had already learned the lesson of it. I took a deep breath and then another, surfacing from the depths, ready to face the day. I would tell John of this, I thought as I snuffed out my candle, as soon as I had the words. Though if the past was any guide, his deepest self already knew.

**ooOoo**

I went to his office a short while later, intending to walk with him to the day's strategy meeting in the War Room. He greeted me with a kiss, but then turned sober. "I'm glad you came," he said. "Saves me going to find you before the meeting starts."

"What for?"

He hesitated, hands on my shoulders. "You can't be there, love. Not this time."

"What?" I blinked at him, bewildered. "Why?"

"You were close to Kosh. The real one." His jaw tightened as if at a painful memory. "I don't know what implications that has for the current ambassador—how easily he can see into your mind, know what you're thinking. We can't take the risk."

"You are going to do something," I said, breathless with new anxiety. "About him. And I cannot know. In case I give it away."

"That's about the size of it, yeah." He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. "I'm sorry."

I managed a smile for him. "Don't be. What I do not know, I cannot reveal. It makes sense." I pressed my palm flat to his chest and studied my splayed fingers against his jacket. He had to go, I knew it, but… "Can you tell me how much risk is involved?"

He covered my hand with his. "I'm still working that out." With his other hand, he fished something from his pocket. "I have a job for you, though." He handed me a data crystal. "This is everything we have on Shadow assaults to date. Susan added what she and Marcus saw in Sector 70, and I've input the Vorlons' attacks since then as well. I need you to look for a pattern on both sides." He clenched a fist as he moved a little away from me. "I'm tired of us being pawns, Delenn. I won't let it go on any longer. We need a battleground of _our_ choosing. Somewhere we can face down the Vorlons and the Shadows. That we pick the place and time may be our only advantage." He turned to look at me, with a crooked smile. "As fast as you can find it, of course. That goes without saying."

I matched his tone as best I could. "I have often wondered why humans say that, about a thing they have just said."

Briefly, the worry lifted from his face. "Might be best to stay here. That way, there's no chance of crossing paths with the Vorlon. When you figure it out, come and find me."

"I will."

He gave me a last look—fearful, hopeful, loving, proud. A swift step toward me, a quick hard kiss, and then he was gone.

I stared for a moment at the doorway through which he had disappeared. Then I slid the crystal into the Babcom unit and got to work.

It was simple enough to patch the unit into the War Room's systems, specifically those devoted to tactical analysis. Working out what the data had to tell me proved somewhat more complicated. I found myself wishing for the giant star map to gaze at and all the War Room's resources at my disposal. But John and the others would be deep in the strategy session by now, working out the details of how to deal with the Vorlon. Cold fear snaked down my spine; I gritted my teeth and focused anew on the data in front of me. We had found the pattern of Shadow assaults last time through sheer persistence, and on the strength of it won our first victory in Sector 83. What I had helped to do once, I could surely do again. There was no other choice.

An hour went by, then another. Then I stopped counting. Some time after that, the answer came to me in a flash that left me shaken and oddly exhilarated. We could do what John wanted, if I was right. Choose our ground and draw them to us, fight where _we_ wished. Though the odds were against us and the power we faced overwhelming, we could at least make a stand. Possibly the last one we would ever make.

I slid the crystal out with trembling hands, tucked it in a pocket and swiftly left the room. Now more than ever, there was little time to lose.

**ooOoo**

"They're in Cargo Bay Twelve," Susan told me when I reached C&C. "You'd best stay up here. It could get dicey."

For the word _dicey_, her grim face suggested an equally grim translation. Dry-mouthed, I swallowed and managed to speak. "Who are 'they'?"

"John and Lyta and Lorien." Her attempt at a reassuring smile did not come off well. "They have two security teams with them, armored and loaded. There's no reason the plan shouldn't work, but it's best to be on the safe—"

I didn't hear her last words, nor did I heed her sharp calling of my name as I ran out of C&C and down the hall.

**ooOoo**

I heard the confrontation in the cargo bay before I saw it. The harsh crackle of electrical current mingled with scattered shouts and the muffled _crump_ of energy weapons, plasma rifles as well as PPGs. The acrid tang of scorched metal hung in the air, and when I rounded the corner I saw searing-bright flashes through the open bay door. _John_, I thought, fighting down panic, and crept toward the chaos ahead.

Scant feet from the bay, a sudden blaze of white light half-blinded me. I flinched, then shielded my eyes with an upraised arm and peered inside. Black-clad security guards in full riot gear were everywhere; I caught a glimpse of John and Lyta huddled together behind a makeshift barrier of shipping containers and metal girders. The Vorlon was there too—immobile amid electrical flares and weapons fire, his encounter suit a dark blotch in a deadly vortex of light.

A piercing shriek split the air, its source no physical throat. The encounter suit imploded as the Vorlon shot out of it. Pure maddened energy, he flew around the cargo bay, screaming with rage and hurling bolts of blue-white light at everything he could reach. The bolts burned where they struck. The security teams kept firing, but each salvo only enraged him further. One man, hit in the chest, cried out and fell from the gantry where he crouched. Those near him threw themselves flat, away from the Vorlon's assault, then regrouped and kept firing. John was firing too, popping up from behind the barrier and then ducking back to avoid the onslaught.

Huddled by one side of the bay door, I watched in horrified fascination. There was no reaching John through this; the Vorlon's fury or a stray PPG bolt would cut me down before I got more than three steps into the chamber. The Vorlon swept across the bay again, screeching defiance and hurling deadly energies at a small knot of security guards not far from where I stood. One man was struck high on the shoulder. He cried out and went down.

The fallen guard lay immobile, not two arms' lengths from me. The Vorlon swooped away toward fresh targets. If I could reach the fallen man, drag him quickly enough to safety…

I darted into the bay, bent down and hooked my arms beneath the guard's. Pulling him backward toward the corridor was difficult; the riot armor he wore made him heavier than I expected. Then the deck shuddered, and I nearly lost my balance. With effort, I kept my grip and continued backing up.

As I reached the doorway with my burden, I heard John shout my name in warning. I glanced up. The Vorlon hovered almost straight overhead. Two pinpoints of red-orange light, like angry eyes, glowed hotly deep within him. Time seemed to slow as I realized he meant to kill me. And there was nothing I could do, except watch my death coming and pray for courage—

Sudden motion caught my eye as John ran across the bay and threw himself in the Vorlon's path. The glowing shaft of light meant to slay me pierced his back instead. He halted abruptly, as if checked by a tether. The light hurt him; I could see it in his face. He was pinned on it like a spear-caught fish. Agonized, but determined not to show it.

My lips shaped his name. I sensed a presence then, behind me. Lorien. His gaze was fixed on John, grave and avid at the same time.

"NOW!" he shouted.

With titanic effort, John turned to face the Vorlon. His body spasmed and he cried out. Light shot out of him, blazing white tinged with gold. I knew the color, the shape of that light. But it couldn't be…

John crumpled to the deck. The Vorlon shrieked as the golden shape curled itself around him in a grim wrestling match. I was too stunned to move, or even to muster fear for John's unconscious body. "Kosh," I murmured, as if my voice was not my own. "Kosh was inside him…"

Lorien, beside me now, gave a single nod. "Yes. The last of Kosh, and some of him… and some of me."

_Some of John_…? But I couldn't focus my thoughts enough to ask what that meant. Couldn't do anything but watch for another, endless moment as the twined, fighting Vorlons spiraled upward through the cargo bay ceiling and out into space.

**ooOoo**

Susan's voice over the comm, taut with panic she was trying not to show, recalled me to myself. I ran to John, but before I could touch him, Lorien forestalled me. His life force must be replenished, he said. Bewildered, barely able to check my need to hold John close and make certain he was whole, I watched as Lorien laid a long-fingered hand on his back. Golden light, gentle as sunrise, glowed around it. John absorbed the glow as a cloth absorbs water. Suddenly, I was afraid. I did not understand what I was seeing, why John needed this from Lorien. Or what _this_ was. Was he even breathing, I thought with a jolt of fear. He had died on the homeworld of the Shadows…

Seconds passed. Eyes on my beloved, I asked the question I was afraid to ask. One of many, but the only one I had the courage at that moment to face. "Is this how you brought him back at Z'ha'dum?"

Lorien nodded. "I give of myself to replenish him. For a little while." His tone was tender and a little sad. A loving father, grieving for what he knows must befall his children.

My throat closed over a cry of protest._ No_, I wanted to say. _Whatever it is, no. John came back from death for me. He forgave my transgression. We were meant to be together, to fight this war and then to have a life after…_

What came out were two words: "How long?"

The answer—"Long enough"—brought no solace.

**ooOoo**

Someone had called for a medical team. Garibaldi, I surmised, taking care of his fallen personnel. He had removed his riot helmet and was rubbing his scalp, pacing with the angry energy of a caged mountain cat. He spared John and me a single, opaque glance where we sat to one side of the bay, John halfway upright against me only because I held him so. He was breathing shallowly, holding onto me as if he might otherwise drift away.

Garibaldi's gaze shifted to Lorien, and the detached, analytical look became a glare. "What the hell was that stunt you just pulled? You put him at risk, you know that? We just got this guy back from the fucking dead, and now you damned near send him there again. Was this craziness his idea or yours? Huh?"

Lorien replied calmly, as he always did. "Some risk was necessary. Sheridan knew that."

The very mildness of his response inflamed Garibaldi further. "Yeah? Well, I'll tell you what he _doesn't_ know. He doesn't know what really happened on the Shadows' homeworld. None of us do. He knows what he _thinks_ happened. Maybe what you put in his brain. But I don't know you, I don't trust you, and after what just happened here, I don't get why _he_ does—"

"Michael," John murmured, but his voice was too weak for Garibaldi to heed.

My arms tightened around him as I raised my voice. "Stop this," I snapped, loud enough to halt Garibaldi in mid-sentence. "Please. Stop."

He looked over at me, his anger melting into regret. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I… Never mind. Forget it." The last two words were tossed over his shoulder as he turned away.

His reactions distressed me, but my main concern was for John. By the time the medical team arrived a few minutes later, John had recovered enough to insist he was fine and raise a fuss when I said otherwise. "If I were not holding you up, you would fall down," I told him as I helped him to his feet. "Have you not been heroic enough for one day?"

He smiled in spite of himself. "All right, okay. But no gurney. I can walk."

"With me propping you up every step of the way. No, John. And if you will not listen to me, then think of Ivanova. She will have both our heads if you don't behave yourself."

He sighed and lay down on the gurney, as directed. "I'm going to save this for our first official fight. I'm pretty sure we're supposed to have at least a few. I think I read it in a book somewhere."

It took me a moment to realize he was joking.

We reached MedLab One shortly thereafter, where John was delivered into Stephen's capable care. I had not left his side, nor let go of his hand. I kept remembering Lorien's words: _long enough_. What did that mean? Long enough for what? I had the strange, panicky feeling that if I let go of John, he would vanish. All the days since his return would vanish too, and I would find myself in my darkened room staring at a candle flame with wet eyes and a shattered heart.

"You don't have to stay," John said, squeezing my fingers gently as Stephen passed a medical monitor over him where he lay on a diagnostic bed. "I know you have a lot to do, especially that thing I asked you to figure out—"

The attack data. The pattern I had seen, the place it pointed to. The tumultuous events of the past hour had driven it from my mind. "I have found it," I said. "I went to find you, to tell you, and Susan said you were in the cargo bay…"

He started to sit up. Stephen pushed him gently back down. He scowled—which Stephen ignored—then turned to me. "And?"

"I know the place. I will show you when we are finished here." I gave him a stern look. "_And_ when Stephen says you are recovered enough."

"Delenn—" he began, then broke off as the door to MedLab slid open. Lennier caught sight of me and hurried over.

"There you are," he said. "One of the Anla'shok has come, with the latest intelligence report. It isn't good. She asks that you speak with her as quickly as possible."

I floundered for a moment. The matter was clearly urgent and needed tending to; yet I did not want to leave John, at least not until I had some clearer understanding of what had happened to him in the cargo bay. _And at Z'ha'dum…_

"Delenn," Lennier said again. Gently but firmly, reminding me where my duty lay.

"Go," John said quietly. He glanced up at Stephen and grinned. "You won't do me too much damage, will you?"

"Nah. I'll just talk your ear off while I keep you here for 24-hour observation," Stephen said, with what Garibaldi called his "poker face."

John struggled partway upright, looking shocked. "Twenty-four hour…?"

"Lie down." Stephen laid a firm hand against his chest. "Or you're looking at a shot. Of something. I'll figure it out as I go…"

They were being so ridiculous, it couldn't help but ease my anxiety. I pressed John's hand to my heart, told him I loved him, and left with Lennier at my side.

**ooOoo**

The intelligence report was, indeed, not good. The Vorlons were steadily advancing across Sector 70, wreaking havoc as they went. Planets, inhabited moons, refugee ships from worlds under threat—nothing in their path that they considered a "legitimate target" survived. The Ranger who brought us this news—Nicia, a slender human woman with skin the color of chocolate—looked sick at heart as she spoke. "I still can't believe they went after refugee ships," she said, her grip tight around the cup of restorative tea she held. "Heaven only knows how many innocents they killed, and all because some fools of planetary leaders did a deal with the Shadows awhile back." The hopelessness in her eyes as she looked up chilled me more than her report. "We've got to do something. But what _can_ we do against power like that?"

I cradled her hands, teacup and all. "Don't give up hope. We are nearly ready to move. In the meantime, I will ask as many ships as possible to take refugees from worlds in the Vorlons' assault path." Part of the Minbari fleet had spent the past several weeks doing just that for planets under threat by the Shadows; Lennier and I would see how many we could call on that had a prayer of reaching newly vulnerable worlds before either the Shadows or the Vorlons got there.

Nicia took her leave, and Lennier and I settled to work. He had updates for me on the progress of our war fleet as well; more worlds and more ships were joining every day. "Sheridan's return from Z'ha'dum has galvanized them. It truly is a miracle. With such a man to lead us, they believe anything is possible. Even a victory over impossible odds."

"That is good," I said absently. I felt too overwhelmed by worry to take proper satisfaction in this hopeful turn of events. Worry for the worlds that would likely fall to the Vorlons in the next few days; worry for the terrified refugees; worry for John, and for myself. _For a little while_, Lorien had said. _Long enough_. The words echoed in my mind and would not be silenced.

"Forgive me," Lennier said softly, "but you do not sound as if it is good. Can you tell me what troubles you, Delenn?"

I took a shaky breath, and it all came pouring out. The incident in the cargo bay, Kosh's reappearance, Lorien replenishing John's life force as he lay unconscious on the bay floor. "He would not let me touch John at first. As if John might take some harm by it. And then…" It was hard to speak of this, but I couldn't keep carrying so much anxiety alone. "He said it was for 'a little while'. I don't know what that means. Is John dying? Have I—" I faltered, my eyes suddenly hot with unshed tears. "Have I gotten him back only to lose him again?"

Lennier set down the data-reader he was holding. "That cannot be," he said firmly as he clasped my cold hands. "Sheridan is destined to fight this war by your side. The two halves of our divided souls, embodied in Sheridan and you, coming together to save us all. His return from Z'ha'dum only proves the truth of this. Why would the Universe bring you together, ask so much of you both, only to part you too soon?" He shook his head. "I cannot believe it. I will not. And you should not, either. Faith managed when we all thought he was dead at Z'ha'dum. Surely faith will manage again?"

Such hope there was in his face. Such utter trust that, deep into fire though we might walk, in the end all would be well. How could I tarnish that hope with doubt?

I managed to nod, and pushed my doubts and fears to the back of my mind where I hoped they would stay. At least for a time.

**ooOoo**

I can never recall Lennier's words to me that day without a grim appreciation of their irony, given the change of heart that engulfed him so soon after. How stoutly he had stood up for the notion that John and I were destined for each other—not simply to fight the Second Shadow War, and hopefully win it, but to stay together afterward. To build a life, and the foundation of a future we could then scarcely imagine. How deeply he had believed, when I was all doubts and fears. How little I knew, and how little I saw. And when I did see into the depths of Lennier's heart, I could no longer help him. I have never understood why. I know only that he always demanded so much from himself, yet did not recognize the worth of what he gave. It was easy to forgive him because of that. That he could not accept it was his tragedy as well as mine.

But the distance between Lennier and I was yet to come, on that day when I confessed my worst fears to him and he did his best to console me. Not for the Universe would I have let him know that his efforts fell short—that when John called me from his quarters and asked to see me there, some hours after I had left him in MedLab, I was still afraid. Of precisely what, I did not know, and that made it worse. I only knew it was something, and that from it there was no appeal.

Lorien was present when I arrived, his expression serenely unreadable. My gaze went from him to John, and my heart misgave me even further. John was smiling in welcome, but the tension in his posture betrayed him. He had asked me here to tell me something that he did not want to. He was doing it because he had to.

John spoke first, Lorien taking up the thread when he faltered. He was dying when Lorien found him at Z'ha'dum—was already dead, in fact. At those words, John turned away. I was forcibly reminded of myself just yesterday, coming to his quarters to ask his forgiveness. I had kept my back to him then, unable to bear what I might see in his face. He was doing the same thing now, not looking at me while Lorien spoke, shielding himself from the anguish he knew the truth would cause me. I could not blame him for it. He loved me, and yet was bringing me pain. The worst of it was, he had no choice. Done was done; all that remained was to deal with it.

Lorien paused in his narrative, as if waiting for me to speak. Questions crowded through my mind, each one more hurtful than the last. _Why? How did things fall out this way? Is it _my_ fault?_

In the end I voiced only one question, the same one I had asked while John lay senseless in the cargo bay: "How long?"

Lorien looked to John, who nodded once. My heart began to pound. He was facing me now, at least… but that he could not bring himself to answer…

"In human terms," Lorien said calmly, "barring injury and illness…perhaps twenty years. But no more than that."

"Twenty years." I echoed him in a hoarse whisper. My sight blurred, and for a moment I couldn't breathe. Twenty human years. Scarcely enough time for a Minbari infant to grow through childhood and come of age. A scant half of the lifetime I had already lived. _No_, I thought, and barely choked the word back.

John was saying something about "a good run." Belatedly, I realized he was talking of his age. How old he would be when he… finished dying. The thought was so painful, I could not hold onto it. I turned to him in desperate appeal. "You told me humans live to be a hundred years old. Even older." He didn't know, I realized as I said it; he couldn't, or he would not be trying so hard to convince me this was not as devastating as it seemed. If I told him how long _I_ was likely to live after he was gone, what then? What recourse, from those empty years ahead?

"You can't…" I said, and faltered. I couldn't tell him, couldn't make this harder for him than it already was.

"Twenty years," Lorien murmured. "No more. And then one day, he will simply…stop."

His words hollowed me out, as if each one claimed a piece of my soul. John was no longer trying to be brave. He knew what I felt, and would have given his own soul to spare me. But he couldn't. Suddenly I was four cycles old again, watching the flyer with my mother aboard vanish into the morning sky. A young woman, Grey Council, holding a dying Dukhat in my arms in that final moment of shock before grief and rage took over. Standing in the snow at my father's house, seeing his eyes empty of love as the door closed between us for the last time.

John murmured something to Lorien, and Lorien left. I stared at the floor. I would _not_ break down, I told myself. I would be brave and bear this, for John's sake.

At his light touch, I turned to face him. He told me it was all right, though we both knew it wasn't. "I went into this with my eyes open," he said. "I knew if I went to Z'ha'dum, there'd be a price. Seems there's always a price." He glanced away, then back at me. "I'm okay with this."

But I was not, and told him so. I _had_ gotten him back only to lose him again. "Twenty years…"

"It's a long time," he said, with an attempt at a smile. His hands, cradling mine, were warm and strong. "It's twenty more years than I would've had. And at least I can spend most of them with you."

I couldn't answer, or even look up at him. That he should be taken from me too, like so many others I had loved… I needed to cry, break down, run away to some private place and let grief have its way with me. Yet I could not bring myself to leave him. So I stayed, silent and motionless, unable to respond even when he let go of me and began pacing around the room as if searching for something. He was nervous and trying to mask it—but it felt different from his tension earlier. Lighter somehow, in a way I could not explain.

"There it is," he said finally, snatching up a chair cushion and grabbing something from underneath. "I thought I'd lost it."

In his hand was a box, scarcely a fingerspan long, covered in black fabric. He kept talking, while a distant part of my mind noted his change of mood and wondered at it. "I, um… I wanted you to have this." He lifted my hand and placed the box in my palm. The fabric was soft, and I belatedly recognized it as velvet. Like the black dress Susan had lent me for my first "dinner date" with John, ages ago…

Random words broke into my thoughts: "…Not exactly what I had in mind… temporary until I get you a real engagement ring." _Engagement_? I thought, puzzled at his use of a word that, to me, meant battle. Clearly, I had missed some context. Whatever it meant to him, it was important. There was something in him now beyond simple nervousness. Anticipation, and hope, like a child at Festival time who can hardly wait to go to the fairgrounds.

"It's an Earth custom," he said, and opened the box. Inside was a ring, a slim gold band set with a small, glittering white stone. "See, you give someone you love"—he took the ring out and tossed the box aside, then held the ring near the third finger of my left hand—"an engagement ring, as a sort of down payment for another ring. The kind you exchange when you get…" He paused, and slipped the ring on my finger. "…married."

Our eyes met and held. Had he just said…? He had. He had asked me—through this half-improvised but heartfelt ritual of the ring—to be his wife. His life-mate, for as long as we had.

His next words echoed my thoughts; sincerity blazed in his face. "I don't know when we'll be able to get around to that part of it. We may not survive the next two weeks. But I wanted you to have this—and for you to know that, whatever time I have left… I want to spend it with you."

No sorrow could stand in the face of that. Too overcome to speak, I answered him without words, in the most definite way I could.


	43. Chapter 43

**Author's Note: **This chapter takes place between the end of "Falling Toward Apotheosis" and the beginning of "The Long Night", and is mostly (if not entirely) gapfiller. The quote cited near the end is from Alexander Pope's _Essay on Man_.

**Part 44—Revelations**

We kept hold of each other when we finally came up for air, endless minutes later. John rested his head against mine, cupping my face in his hands, breathless. "I take it that's a 'yes'?"

I was laughing and crying suddenly, both at once. No need to hold these tears back; happiness brought them, flowing out of me like water. "Yes, _yes_, of course, as if I would say anything else…"

"I love you," he said, eyes shining, and kissed me again.

I felt dizzy when it ended, and clung to him to stay upright. "How do you do this to me," I murmured into the soft skin of his neck. Sparse, silky hairs tickled my nose. "From sorrow to joy in a heartbeat…"

"It's a knack," he murmured in my ear, with an unsteady laugh of his own.

His jest—pure John—brought new mirth, then new tears, which he brushed from my cheeks. I had no more control than a little child, and should have been well ashamed of myself. But I was with John, and I could show him this part of me. After everything I had been through, it felt good to let go. He held me close, feathered my face with kisses, whispered lover's words in my ear, held up my hand with the ring to admire it in the light from the nearest wall sconce. "We'll go together to pick out another one," he said, his thumb making slow circles across my fingers. "As soon as we can find a free hour or two."

I had collected myself enough by this time to respond coherently… or at least, as coherently as his touch would allow. "This is the custom? That the wearer of the engagement ring helps choose it?"

"Uh-huh."

"What if I choose this one?" At his questioning look, I explained, somewhat shyly. "This is your gift. It has such meaning because of that…I do not think another can better it."

The warmth in his eyes made me want to drown in them. "That's a beautiful thought." He brushed his lips across my hand, ring and all. "Of course we can keep this one if you want."

"I do." My head pillowed on his shoulder, I gazed at the ring, loving the way it gleamed in the light. Loving the feel of his arms around me, the faint spicy scent of his skin, then the taste of his lips on mine again.

"I almost wasn't going to tell you," he murmured after a time. "About my… deadline. I've known for a couple days. I kept trying to think, which would be worse? To know, and have it hanging over you the whole time? Or not to know, and get blindsided two decades from now?" He held me closer as he spoke. "I've been through that second one, with Anna and the _Icarus_. It's awful. You leave so much unsaid and undone, because you think you have all this time… and then, one day, you don't. And it's too late. I didn't want to put you through that. But I hated to think of you the other way… counting every day that passed, spending each one mourning an end you knew was coming before it even got here. And then you turned up in the cargo bay, and I heard you and Lorien talking, and I realized the choice was made." He stroked my hair, then traced a line down my neck to my collarbone. "Like I said before, you have a right. And I don't want there to be any more secrets between us."

_No secrets_. A chill bloomed in the pit of my stomach. There was one secret I had not yet told him. One I had hoped to avoid telling, ever. The chill spread through me, and for a brief, stark moment I considered saying nothing. Did he have to know? What good would be served now by confessing a tragic error from sixteen years in the past? Surely I could keep silent in this one thing. Just this one thing, and then…

And then I would be deceiving him by silence. Again. Only this time would be worse. With Anna, I had merely claimed certainty about her fate that I did not possess. With this, I would be actively concealing a terrible truth. And what little time we had together—our twenty years—would be irrevocably corrupted by my choice to lie, with no one's life or honor at stake except my own.

He must have sensed something in my stillness. His hands moved to my shoulders; then he was raising my bowed head, tipping my chin up so he could see my face. "Delenn? What's wrong?"

I closed my eyes and moved away. Only three steps, but each step a chasm. It felt like a small death, leaving the warmth of his embrace. But I could not look at him, could not be in his arms, while I said what must be said.

I was sharply aware of the ring on my finger, his gift of moments ago. I found myself stroking the small inset stone as I might have stroked his cheek, or his hair, or the back of his neck. These few minutes might be all I would have to cherish that gift, once he knew...

My mouth felt dry as dust. I prayed for courage. "There is… something I must tell you," I said, and stopped. Seconds passed, each one an eternity, while fear and shame held sway over my tongue. At length I fought them down and forced myself to continue. "Something I did… from many years ago."

There was a long silence. My pulse pounded in my ears. Finally, John spoke. A single sentence, laid out as if it were made of glass. "From the war?"

There was no need to ask which war. I managed to nod. More seconds crawled by. I tore my gaze away from my hands, the ring, shifted it to the painting of the mountainscape that hung on his sitting-room wall. I had always admired it. Now, it reminded me of home. Of where I came from, who I was. A scrap of courage stirred in me—a poor, paltry thing, but enough to let me go on. "You know, of course"—I sounded brittle, unnatural in my own ears—"that the _Prometheus_ fired first on the _Valen'tha_ when we crossed paths in 2245?"

"EarthGov propaganda to the contrary." John's neutral tone gave away nothing of what he was feeling. "I saw the classified briefing vid. We found out later that we'd killed your leader. Not intentionally, but by that time it was too late."

_Breathe_, I told myself. "What you do not know…" It was hard to keep talking. "What you do not know is that I was there. On the ship. When it happened. Dukhat died in my arms." A hard swallow past the burning in my throat. "_No mercy_, I said, when they asked. And we showed none." My hands clenched into fists, nails gouging my palms. "For nearly three years, we showed none. Because of what I said. 'No mercy'. That was how we waged our war against you. And I am the one who made it so."

The silence then was awful. I listened for his step coming toward me, waited for the touch of his hands on my shoulders. He would come, he would turn me to face him, he would tell me… what? That he forgave me this also? All the dead of the Earth-Minbari War: everyone he had lost, every sleepless night he had suffered as a soldier in that war, wondering how many more would die, and when my maddened people would put his birthworld to the flame?

There was no sound from him. No footfall, no word. I wished I dared look at him, but quailed at the thought. Was he aghast at what I had told him? Shattered inside, knowing now the full depths of what the woman he loved was responsible for?

When he finally spoke, he said the last thing I expected. "I wondered when you would tell me." His voice was soft and full of sadness… and something else. Compassion.

I did turn toward him then, feeling as if the floor had just dissolved under my feet. There was sorrow in his face, but no shock, no anger, no disillusion. "You _knew_? But… how could you…I didn't… you never said…"

"I recognized your voice. From the ship, after the peace mission that went bad." He glanced down at his shoes. "I didn't know the full details until now—just that you were someone important back then. Not much of a stretch to figure you were involved with the war somehow." He looked back up at me. "Your warriors were convinced Stephen and I had murdered your peace envoys. For all they knew, we had. But you… you figured out we were innocent. And you made them let us go. I didn't know then exactly what you said—but I knew you were saving our lives. I could hear it in your voice, how sick and tired you were of the killing."

"I was sick and tired of it almost since it began." My tears flowed freely now; I had not the strength to keep them back. "But what I had started, I could not stop. Lennon—" My voice broke on my old friend's name. "The peace envoy—he was my only ally. And then he was dead. And I…" I clasped my shaking hands to still them. "I could not end our madness. But I could at least spare two innocent strangers a death they did not deserve. Even though I was certain you would die in battle against us anyway. Sooner or later."

He took a step toward me. "Delenn—"

"No!" I held up a hand, rigid with tension. "Do not tell me you forgive me this, too. Hundreds of thousands dead, because of my words—because I did not have the self-control to keep silent when I should have! You cannot possibly…" I couldn't go on. I turned away from him again, wrapping my arms around myself like a shield against an unbearable wound. It was too late, of course. I had already inflicted the wound. John might try to forgive me, might even believe he had, but the knowledge of what I had done would weigh on him nonetheless. Until, one day, it became too much for both of us. I had feared this all along, but avoided facing it until now.

The silence this time felt charged with bitter memories and pain. _I should go_, I thought, but couldn't move. I was spent; to walk across the room and out the door would take more strength than I had left. _When he asks me to go_, I thought, _then I will leave_. And I waited for him to do it.

He didn't. "I used to think about her, you know?" he said instead, his voice subdued but rough with emotion. "The mystery woman in the big grey cloak. I couldn't see much of her, just her mouth and the shape of her chin—and I didn't know who she was—but I knew she was used to being obeyed. That snap of command in her voice, the way she held herself. I used to wonder, after the war was over, why she let us go. Why she'd believed us innocent. Sure, I used a word in her own language that no human should've known—but what of it? I could've tortured the envoy—Lennon—or tricked it out of him somehow. We were the enemy; who knew what we'd stoop to? But she saw through all that, straight to the truth. I'd think, sometimes"—he gave a short laugh, no more than a breath—"that if I ever met her again, I'd ask her why. Why she knew we weren't murderers, why she didn't have us killed anyway just because it was war. What she saw in us that… that no Minbari had seen in humans before." I heard him shift his feet, take a single step. Toward me? Away? I couldn't tell.

"I didn't connect her with you for a long while," he went on. "Not until after that business with the Inquisitor, when I heard that same power in your voice for the first time. I told myself I was nuts, thinking the Minbari ambassador to Babylon Five and the woman from that Minbari ship—who had to be Grey Council—were the same person. But the idea wouldn't go away. And after awhile I knew I was right. It _was_ you."

In spite of my anguish, a wavering smile briefly tugged at my lips. "I used to think of you sometimes. The flame-haired soldier whose name I never knew…" Grief welled up then, and I hid my face in my hands. I knew him now, and loved him so, and it was killing me to speak of what went before. He had to know it. Why did he not just end this, ask me to go and have done with it?

"You want to blame someone for the war," he said slowly, carefully, "you might just as well blame me."

Stunned, I turned and stared at him. "You." The absurdity of it could have made me laugh, if I were not in so much pain. It made no sense, this claim of his. I thought fleetingly of the _Drala'Fi_, the renewed frenzy among my people for war in the aftermath—but he did not know of that, and the war had been raging for some time before that incident even happened.

"Me," he said, with a defiant lift of his chin. "They offered me the first officer berth on the _Prometheus_, before…" He broke off, with a quick glance away. "I turned them down. I didn't want to serve under Jankowski. We'd crossed paths during the Dilgar War; he was arrogant, a cowboy, and I wanted as far away from him as I could get. I tortured myself about that later. Wondering, what if I _had_ been first officer when the _Prometheus_ met the Minbari? Would I have had the guts to belay Jankowski's order to fire? Could I have stopped the war from starting in the first place? But I wasn't there. I chose otherwise. And I'll never know."

His voice was a whisper now, as if he had never confessed this to anyone. I found it unbearable that he could even think of blaming himself. "You did nothing—" I began, but he overrode me.

"Exactly. I did _nothing_." He faced me then, and there was such a storm of emotions in his eyes that I flinched from them. Anger—not at me, but at memories, and at himself. Grief for the lives wasted, guilt at what might have been avoided had he chosen differently. And empathy, so deep that the sight of it cut like a blade. I had not expected such understanding, not of this. The universe I knew had turned upside down again—the thing for which I stood condemned in my own mind, was the same thing my beloved condemned himself for. Yet with far less reason.

I took a faltering step toward him. "You… John, _you_ are not to blame…"

"And neither are you." He strode toward me and gripped my arms, hard enough that it almost hurt. "My God, Delenn, there is so much blame to go around! Blame Jankowski for panicking in a first-contact situation and ordering his ship to fire. Or blame Chafin, his first officer, for knowing it was the wrong move but not having the courage to relieve Jankowski of command. Or blame poor McIntyre for obeying. He blamed himself for years. You saw it. Yet you forgave him." His eyes were brimming as he went on. "Or hell, blame EarthForce for sending Jankowski out there in the first place. He wasn't trained for first contact, and they knew what a hothead he was. That's why they sent him. We were riding high after the Dilgar War; we wanted to make a splash. The Centauri warned us about your people. That you were powerful, and inscrutable, and a bad enemy to make if we offended through carelessness or ignorance. We didn't care. We figured we'd make the big bad Minbari sit up and take notice—let you know there was a new tough guy in town and not to mess with us. We went near your borders looking for trouble, and by God we got it."

He was trembling with the force of his emotions now; the tremors went straight through me, arrows pointed at my heart. "If you're to blame because of what you said when your leader lay dying in your arms, then so are we. And so is the rest of your damned Grey Council, for even _asking_ you to make a life-or-death call at a time like that. For a little while, you wanted a terrible thing—and when you got it, you knew how terrible it was. You spent the next—I don't even know how long—trying to stop it. That peace mission—that was your idea, wasn't it?"

My answer was barely audible. "Yes. But it failed."

"And that's not your fault." Not for a moment did he let up. "You're not the only one responsible for the goddamned war. You can't keep carrying that burden all by yourself. You don't own it. You don't have to be forgiven for it. Not when so many others did just as much, or more, to make it happen as you did." He was weeping now as he pressed me to him, holding me as if he would never let go. "Don't do this. Don't tear yourself apart like this. Don't… don't think I'll turn away from you because of anything you've said or done… I love you, and nothing can change that, nothing _ever_…"

I broke down completely then, as I had when I first knew he had gone with Anna to Z'ha'dum. The flood of tears was a healing thing, carrying away the guilt I had borne for so long but rarely acknowledged except in the worst depths of restless nights. We cried together for a long time—mourning for the past, for secrets too long kept, for a future cut far too short. Yet beyond this storm of grief lay a truth I could now begin to glimpse, bright as sunrise. He loved me, and I loved him, not in spite of the past, but in part because of it. We were who we were because of everything we had been through, and there was nothing to forgive or set aside. There was only truth, and love; and that was enough.

**ooOoo**

My dreams that night were all of John. Happy dreams: walking with him in the summer-golden hills near Tuzanor, laughing as we chased each other through the violet-studded prairie grasses of the North American plains. Three times, in these dreams, I also saw a small boy. He had John's face and my eyes, and the tips of a narrow bone crest poking out from amid his touseled reddish hair. Once, he was between us, holding each of our hands; once, John was smiling and swinging him high over tall grass; and once he was halfway up the redbark tree I had climbed as a child, scaling its trunk as if born to do so. The child's face was still with me when I woke—and I wondered, and briefly daydreamed, and then tucked my wonderings away for a less precarious time.

It was still very early, but I knew Susan would be up. And I knew she would have something I needed. A quick trip to my favorite small bakery that specialized in Minbari pastries—open even at this unholy hour—and then I was at Susan's door with a full paper bag and a request. "Two of these are for you, in exchange for a little coffee," I said as she let me in. The scent of a fresh-brewed pot hung pleasantly in the air. I raised the bag and opened it just enough to let her see the half-dozen _chirnoi_ that nestled within. "I would like to bring John something decent to drink this morning, and I will not insult good _chirnoi_ with—what is the phrase? 'Rotgut java'?"

She snorted, then tried to look stern. "You know, there are penalties for bribing an officer."

"Ah, but I am not in the chain of command. Exactly. Will you help me?"

"Not a problem. I've got a little time yet."

I thanked her and handed her the bag so she could take her pick of the contents. As she took it, she glimpsed the ring on my finger. "Oh," she said, sounding surprised—then, with more emphasis, "_Oh_." The bag slipped from her hand to the kitchenette counter, and she gazed at me with light in her eyes. "Is that… did he… are you…?"

I couldn't speak, could only nod. I felt fluttery and shy and giddy with happiness, all at the same time. That I could share this joy with her, my friend who was almost a sister, seemed to double it. She gave a little cry and threw her arms around me, hugging the pair of us breathless. "My God… _mazel tov_… that's congratulations in Yiddish… I can't believe it. That's so wonderful. So… perfect." She held me away from her suddenly, and I saw that her eyes were wet. "Damn. I wish I didn't have to leave so soon. Someone should throw you a bridal shower. Oh, hell." She hugged me again. "When I get back. Or… afterward. When everything's over with. Count on it."

As so often recently, I felt caught between tears and laughter. "I still can hardly believe it," I said. "And then I see this"—I nodded toward the ring—"and I remember it is true." I was in a confessional mood, and found myself going on. Susan might well understand… "There are moments when… when it seems almost too much. That John came back, that we will be together for any time at all." I gulped back the painful secret I had come perilously close to revealing; _that_ one was not mine to tell. "Does that make me strange, to think such things?"

"It makes you Russian," she cracked, wiping her eyes. Then she sobered. "Really, though? No. I mean, it's only been… what, not even two weeks since we all thought John was dead? I think you're entitled to a little feeling of unreality." Her bright smile came back then, sweeping away everything but the joy of the moment. "You have the worst timing for telling me, though." Swiftly, while she brewed more coffee, she filled me in on the mission John had set her and Lorien. "He wants us to find more First Ones, said Lorien might know where they are. If nothing else, the fact that he's the First One of all ought to make them come around for a chat. And we need all the help we can get."

That was true enough, and frightening to contemplate. I did not want to think such thoughts yet; time enough for cold reality later in the day. Seeking distraction, I asked her a question that had been puzzling me for the past few minutes. "What is a 'bridal shower', exactly?"

"It's a party in honor of the bride-to-be. With presents. And cake. There _has_ to be cake."

"Ah. A ritual celebration."

She pulled a thermal carafe from a cabinet and began pouring coffee into it. "I guess so. Though like most human rituals, it's pretty loose. Presents, food and congenial company are the only elements required."

Her use of the word _elements_ made me think of something else. "Why is it called a 'shower'? Is there water involved?"

She laughed at that. "What a great idea. I can just see everybody all dressed up, nailing each other with squirt guns and water balloons… But no. 'Shower' refers to the shower of gifts bestowed on the bride. Things for the household…" She twitched her eyebrows suggestively. "Things for the wedding night…"

"I see." I did, and felt myself blushing a bit as I returned her smile.

"So do Minbari have anything like that?"

"We have… something else." My blush deepened at the thought of the _shan'fal_. That was one ritual John and I would _not_ be setting aside. If we lived long enough to go through it…

She must have seen my change of expression. Sober and determined, she topped off the carafe and closed it. "All right, then. We've got one more reason to beat these bastards and live to tell. There is _no way_ Susan Ivanova is going to miss a party. Especially not this one. Even without squirt guns and water balloons." She handed me the carafe and followed me out the door. "Tell John we'll do our best—and that he'd damned well better not start things up without me."

We went our separate ways then, and I felt my heart go with her. Despite the terrible odds we faced, she—and all of us—still dared to believe in a brighter future. Or at least persuaded ourselves we did, which amounted to the same thing. Somehow, some way, I vowed, we would make it come to pass.

**ooOoo**

There was one more person I needed to see before I went to John, and time was short. Where to find him, I was not sure—but I thought I knew how to make certain he found me.

The Zen garden wasn't far from John's office. I went there, set the _chirnoi_ and coffee on the bench beside me, closed my eyes, and thought of Lorien. I drew his face in my mind: long narrow bones, ancient eyes, quizzical half-smile that marveled at everything while being truly surprised at nothing. I had something to say to him, and I could not be sure I would get another chance before he left.

A few silent minutes went by. Then: "You wished to see me?" Lorien spoke with gentle affection, as a grandfather might to his grandchild.

I opened my eyes and found him gazing at me. A friendly look, and curious as well. I was struck suddenly by the sheer power of that curiosity, coming from this immeasurably ancient being. Speaking with Lorien was like speaking to the conscious Universe itself—or at least, as close to that as I would ever get. The thought was simultaneously humbling and ennobling. Who was I, that such a being would look upon me with kindness, or at all… and yet, however young and insignificant I was by comparison, he found me worthy of notice nonetheless. Something John had said once came to mind, a quote from a famous poem: "_Who sees with equal eye, as God of all/A hero perish or a sparrow fall…_"

Thinking of John reminded me of my purpose. "I wanted to thank you," I told him, with a bow of deep respect. "For bringing John back, for… restoring him." A pang of grief made it hard to go on. "It is… not for as long as I might have wished, but…" I blinked hard and managed something like a smile. "I am grateful for it anyway." I should have added that I was in his debt, but it seemed ludicrous to think there was anything I might do for such a one as he.

He tilted his head, his curious expression deepening. "I do wonder," he said softly, "what it feels like to be caught up in that remarkable illusion you young ones call love. Especially as deeply as you and Sheridan are."

"But it is not illusion." The words left my mouth as if of their own accord. "Not if the love is true."

If he had pointed ears, he would have pricked them up, so eager was his look as he came and sat beside me. "Yet how can it be otherwise? Your lives are so brief, so… finite. You love for a time, and then death comes and makes an end. And love is gone."

"No." Lightly, I rested a hand on his. It seemed there _was_ something I could do for this First One after all—teach him something new, from a young one's perspective he did not share. "People die," I went on, a slight tremor in my voice as those words struck home. "But love does not. Real love, heart to heart and soul to soul… it goes on, as we do, from one life to the next. Those who are bound, find each other again and again. Lifetime after lifetime, on and on, until at last we come together in the place where no shadows fall." I broke off as it dawned on me that it was not only Lorien I was teaching. Voicing these thoughts was helping me, too. For the first time since learning of John's twenty years, I saw a way to cherish them—to treasure each moment without grudging its passing, and so losing it even as I struggled to hold it fast.

"I cannot say what happens after that," I said. "I don't have the words. But I know love is there, too." One hand rose to cover my heart. "I feel it, here. Deeper than blood, deeper than bone. As deep as… as the spark of the Universe that lives in all of us, and makes us one with the stars."

He held my gaze in the brief silence that followed, and in his ageless eyes I thought I saw wonder. Then he smiled, an expression of pure delight. "I am schooled by my children," he said. "It surprised me, that Sheridan's connection to you was enough by itself to revive him. But now I begin to understand. It runs both ways, does it not?" Before I could reply, he rose. "When you see him, tell him we will bring him allies. And that I shall be there when I am needed."

I was not certain what he meant by that last, but found it reassuring nonetheless. "I will," I said, then rose myself and bowed farewell.


	44. Chapter 44

**Author's Note: **This chapter finishes "The Long Night" and brings us partway through "Into the Fire"; some dialogue is quoted from those episodes. As always, gapfillers and scene extensions are my own.

The fate of White Star 14 marks the first time that Delenn, as Entil'zha, has ordered any of her Rangers to lay down their lives rather than merely risk them—a hugely significant emotional moment that I wanted to explore a bit as part of this piece. I hope you enjoy the result.

**Part 45—Fire Ahead, Darkness Behind**

The encounter with Lorien grounded me in ways I could not have explained without a good hour of meditation beforehand to sort it out. I left the Zen garden and went to John's office with a lightened heart, made lighter still by the sight of him leaning back in his office chair, booted feet on his desk and a report across his lap. "I have brought us breakfast," I said as I walked in, holding up the bag of _chirnoi_. "And coffee as well. The real thing, from Susan. So you need not insult your tongue with what they serve from the dispenser in the mess hall."

"God bless her," he said fervently as he dropped the report on his desk and stood. "And God bless you, too. I could _not_ face what passes for scrambled eggs in the mess this morning, let alone the usual excuse for coffee." He had reached me by this time, and slipped one arm around my waist as he deftly eased the carafe from my grasp. The bag of _chirnoi_ followed, both ending up on one side of his desk. "However, there are certain things more pressing than breakfast…"

The kiss lasted a long time and sent shivers through me from head to foot. No, I thought fuzzily—when I could think again—we definitely were _not_ going to skip the _shan'fal_… "We cannot dally too long," I said, my voice hardly more than a breath. "Or we will be late for the strategy session in the War Room…"

"There are things more pressing than that, too," he murmured as he traced the curve of my ear. For the next few moments I was helpless to do anything but sigh and press closer, breathing in the scent of him as if he were life itself. Then, with enormous effort, I managed to speak. Just. "John… we have work to do…"

"This is work," he said, still stroking my ear. "It's very important work. Making you purr like that."

I was melting inside, but we were running out of time. Clearly, there was only one way to stop this. _For now…_ I cupped his face in my hands and kissed him, deeply enough to make him stagger a little when it finally ended. His hands slid down my back, away from more distracting territory. Fighting the impulse to lose myself in him, I laid a hand over his heart—an affectionate gesture, but also one that held him off a little. "Duty first. Pleasure later." Though not too much later, I hoped.

His smile was tinged with regret. "I know. It was just nice not to think about it for a little while." He gave me a last kiss, a light brushing of the lips, then reluctantly let me go and stepped away to fetch two cups from a shelf on the far side of the room. I used the brief interlude to compose myself, putting thoughts of the _shan'fal_ firmly aside. First—as John himself had alluded to only yesterday—we had to survive the next few weeks.

Coffee poured and _chirnoi_ set out—"Oh great, those Minbari beignet things," he said when he saw them—we sat and ate and discussed the morning's business. "The battleground you asked for," I said. "I have found it." I wiped my fingers on a spare napkin, then fished a data-crystal out of my pocket. "It is all here. Sector seventy by twelve by six should do; it lies along the trajectory the Vorlons appear to be following, and there are no inhabited systems in it that I am aware of. If we can bring them to ground there…"

He picked up the crystal and slotted it into the Babcom unit. Both of us watched as the starmaps and calculations I had made the day before played out. "I like it," he said as he sipped coffee. His expression was grave and intent, the look of an _alyt_ planning a campaign. "No chance of collateral damage. The big trick will be getting the Shadows to show up, too."

I picked up my second _chirnoi_ and toyed with it. "Have you some ideas?"

"One." He was still staring at the Babcom screen. "Off," he said after a moment, and the screen went dark. He caught my gaze and smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Here's hoping Lorien and Susan have some luck. I sent them off to find more First Ones. I have a feeling we'll need them."

Whatever his idea was, he did not care to discuss it yet. Suddenly I wasn't hungry anymore. I set the _chirnoi_ down untasted. "There is some possibility the battleground may change," I told him. "I have sent White Stars to some sites of recent attacks, in hopes of gaining more information. A few of them sent preliminary reports last night; Lennier is compiling the data as we speak. He should be finished in time for the meeting."

"Thank God for him," John said with feeling, then frowned. "Is he okay? He's been wearing himself pretty thin lately. Have you talked to him about it?"

"A little. Indirectly." Lennier was indeed wearing himself far too thin these days. Yet it was not easy to make him slow down, or even to hint that he should, without inadvertently implying that he was not up to the challenges we faced. There was a reason behind his driving himself so hard, and I thought I knew what it was. "Lennier took the Vorlons' betrayal particularly hard," I said, gently swirling the coffee in my cup. (Susan's was the only coffee I could bring myself to drink, being strong enough to have a flavor other than thin and bitter.) "They have been our guides and guardians almost since time beyond memory. For them to turn out to be no better than the Shadows—willing to kill innocents simply to win some cruel game—" The ugly reality I had conjured made me shudder, and for a moment I couldn't go on.

"Giants in the playground, not caring what they stomp on," John murmured. The distant look on his face held pain in its depths.

I put my cup down and reached for his hand. "If it is hard for you and I, it is doubly hard for Lennier. He has come a long way since his first days here—grown much more flexible in his thinking—but certain things in his universe are simply supposed to be true. And now one of them has proved false. He is badly shaken up about it, and drives himself extra hard as a way of coping."

"I know what that's like." He returned my gentle pressure on his fingers. "Just let's make sure he doesn't burn himself out. There has to be a way to get him to ease up without losing face."

That was like him, to think of Lennier when he ought to be consumed with the duties of war and his own concerns. I loved him all the more for it. "I will speak to Lennier after the strategy session. Which is not so long away now; we should go."

**ooOoo**

Lennier was there when we arrived, a slim sheaf of print-outs in his hands. He was paler than he should be, and lines around his eyes hinted at lack of sleep. He must have stayed up far too late, or risen far too early, preparing for today. I felt a pang of guilt. I should have been more observant, should have found a way to safeguard him from his own intensity. We would definitely have a private talk after this meeting; it should be easy enough to come up with a pretext.

Garibaldi was there also, pacing with the restless energy of a mountain cat. "Where's your buddy?" he asked John, with a tight smile and a note of challenge. This was disturbing. Garibaldi generally made an effort to control the rough edges of his temper, but we had seen more and more of it since his disappearance and subsequent return to Babylon Five. Lorien was its focus at first; now, it seemed, John was. I suppressed my dismay, and a flash of anger, as neither would help.

"Michael," John said, with a quelling look.

Garibaldi scowled, sullen. "Never mind. Forget it. Let's get started."

As we moved toward the conference table, I was struck by how few we were. Susan was off on her mission with Lorien. Stephen was in MedLab, being needed far more there than here. Lyta likewise was not needed today, even had we brought ourselves to ask it of her. I fervently hoped she was deep in a healing slumber, or doing something that took her mind off everything she had so recently been through. Especially the final, shattering confrontation with the Vorlon. It tore at my heart still, the way I had last seen her: yesterday in her bare quarters, checking on how she was after all the chaos in the cargo bay. "Now he's really dead," she had said—meaning Kosh—in a small, choked voice. "The only one of them who really cared about us. About me." She had wept then, while I held her as a mother holds a child—and I felt helpless before the apparent harshness of a universe that demanded so much from her, yet left her with so little.

John pulled a chair out for me, and I managed a smile. I thought of Marcus then; we could have used some of his cheerful insouciance, which often intensified the bleaker things looked. But he was gone as well, aboard one of the White Stars investigating Shadow and Vorlon attacks. Whatever he and the others had found would be in Lennier's report, which my aide was now passing around the table.

Garibaldi studied his with the dark look that had become habitual to him. I could not remember seeing him smile since his return. _What happened to you out there_, I thought as I glanced at the top of his bowed head—but I could not ask, not yet. At the moment, we had greater concerns—and I was not certain what to say that would not offend, given how touchy he was these days. I was worried for him, but for now there was nothing to be done.

I cast an eye over my own copy of Lennier's report, which did nothing to lift my mood. So much destruction with so little apparent point. As if the lives they were snuffing out did not matter—as if nothing mattered except this horrible game the Shadows and the Vorlons had decided to play, with the rest of us no more than trampled grass underfoot. Giants in a playground, indeed. Cruel giants, caught up in their age-old battle and utterly indifferent to the devastation they caused.

I looked up, unable to bear the sight of the star charts and hyperspace beacons and casualty counts Lennier had compiled, and found my gaze drawn to the empty chair where G'Kar often sat. A sudden, fierce wish for his presence gripped me. Of us all, G'Kar knew the most about finding reasons to keep fighting when all hope seemed lost. That dogged refusal to give in to painful but seemingly inevitable reality had brought his people freedom, at least for a time, and might well have done so again if G'Kar had been spared to continue leading the Narns in the aftermath of the Centauri reconquest. But G'Kar was a prisoner of the Centauri now, slated for execution. Rumor differed as to whether he would be killed on Centauri Prime or on the Narn homeworld—but die he would, likely within days. We could do nothing to save him, a bitter reality of its own. Even for the Anla'shok, to rescue him would take a miracle, and those were in short supply.

I forced my thoughts back to the report and Lennier's commentary on it. Our task here and now was to pull off a different miracle—stopping the Shadows and the Vorlons before they killed too many more. We had scarcely begun deliberating when White Star Fourteen reported in. Captain Harald Ericsson, if I recalled rightly—an exemplary Ranger, a soft-spoken human with a quick wit and a gift for joking wordplay in Adronado that endeared him to his mostly Minbari crew.

He was not joking now, or even smiling. Hidden near a battle-scarred colony world, White Star Fourteen had observed the arrival of a Shadow planet-killing vessel there, and sent a probe to record its actions. We watched in horror as the planet-killer unleashed a devastating assault on the world. Ericsson, barely hanging onto composure, described what was happening. Thermonuclear missiles penetrating the planet's crust, detonating in its core; massive tectonic shifts and atmospheric turmoil; planetary collapse from the inside out. White-faced and hollow-eyed, he concluded with a stark prediction: "Within another ten or twelve hours, nothing will be alive down there."

Looking sickened by what we were witnessing, John told Ericsson to keep the channel open. The crew had standing orders: evacuate as many as possible until time ran out. After that… I could not complete the thought, could only stare down at the conference table as if seeing through it to the dying planet so many light-years away.

John said something more to Ericsson before signing off, and I was dimly aware of Garibaldi's agitated questions, though his exact words passed over me without sense until the end: "If we even knew where they were going to strike next—"

"That is what I have been trying to tell you," Lennier broke in. His gaze swept around the table, encompassing us all. "The Rangers have observed the bulk of the Vorlon fleet gathering in hyperspace. Based on their movements"—here he flashed me a brief, apologetic glance—"the Vorlons will shortly move on to Sector seventy by twelve by five."

That was different from the sector I had chosen. Close by, but… My stomach turned to ice as I recalled the planetary systems in this new area. Even before John said it, I knew. One was inhabited: Coriana Six, home to more than six billion souls. Every one now a potential casualty.

The time for our miracle had come, on a battleground not of our choosing after all.

**ooOoo**

My talk with Lennier would have to wait. John and I spent much of the hour before we convened our allies working out our battle plan, and how to present it. We were asking the fleet—and all the governments that had lent ships to it—to engage two foes simultaneously, one of which we had barely fought to a standstill in Sector 83. Both of them together could decimate our forces with negligent ease. Only a fool would fail to see that, and our League allies were not fools. It was vital that they hold to their commitments and follow the battle plan if we were to have any chance at all.

"We'll show them the footage Ericsson sent," John said, pacing across the Zen garden where we had retreated. We had not discussed leaving the War Room and going there; we simply did it, bound by a shared instinct to balance the horror we had seen with a little peace. The soft rushing of the waterfall and the tranquil beauty of the place brought little comfort now, though. The battle that was coming would be the end of things, one way or another. I knew it; John knew it. The others would know it, too. Especially after they saw the transmission from White Star Fourteen. "That'll show them what we're up against—that we can't wait any longer. We've got to move, for the sake of those six billion Coriannese."

"And then we will tell them our battle plan, before they have a chance at second thoughts." I was prowling across the garden as well, my mind racing like a blizzard wind. "They have to know the truth, but we cannot demoralize them. They must believe there is some hope of victory. Otherwise—"

"—We'll lose them. I know." He halted by a gingko tree. "Good thing I came back from the dead, huh? That should help for starters."

The irony in his voice was savage. It spoke of his own pain at the future he had been dealt even if our best hope came true: a vastly shortened life span, every day of it borrowed time. He had fought hard not to show me that pain, let alone the bitterness he surely felt as well. But it was there, and in this moment—with everything on the line—he could no longer hide it completely.

I went to him and took him in my arms. We held each other for a few moments, saying nothing, simply breathing. "God, I'm sorry," he murmured finally. "What a thing to say to you. Forgive me?"

Lightly, I touched his lips. "There is nothing to forgive." I glanced down, then back up at him. "Please don't be afraid to tell me anything you are feeling. Now, later, ever. I don't want you to… hold back because you think I will be hurt. There is no hurt you could do me that is not far outweighed by the joy of you." My eyes were swimming; I blinked the tears back and tried to smile. "I know you know this, but I thought I would tell you. Just in case."

His answer was a hard embrace, as if he could meld us into a single being. When he released me, he kept hold of my hand. We spoke from that point on only of the battle plan: how many ships would slow the Vorlon fleet, how many go directly to Coriana Six and await the Vorlons' arrival. Through it all we were as one: minds, hearts, souls. _It is enough_, I thought; _come what may, for now it is enough_.

Finally, we spoke of how to draw the Shadows to the battleground. John looked bleak as he raised the subject. "I told you I had an idea," he said. "And I hate it. But I don't see any other way to make this work." He went on to explain, clearly and simply. And devastatingly. We would create a datafile, full of details about a secret base we were constructing near Coriana Six. A base we intended to use to stage attacks against the Shadows. We would send this file to White Star Fourteen, along with four additional White Stars that could get there within the next several hours. "There's a small Shadow base not far from the Coriana system. All five White Stars will go there and attack it, then run. White Star Fourteen…" He faltered, then continued. "Ericsson and White Star Fourteen will make sure the rest get away. As many as can."

"And they?" My voice was barely a whisper. I knew the answer, but a stubborn fragment of me refused to believe it. Until John said what I knew he must—what could not happen any other way.

"They'll have the datafile." His gaze was focused past me, on the little waterfall. "They'll fight like hell to keep the Shadows from getting hold of it. And they'll lose."

I closed my eyes and bowed my head. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I saw Ericsson's jovial face. And then the faces of his crew: each of them, one by one. Brave faces, proud faces, faces I would remember until the day I died.

"You have not told Captain Ericsson yet," I said faintly when I opened my eyes again.

"We'll tell him with the League reps there." He didn't have to say the rest. We both knew how Ericsson and his crew would receive their orders. They were Anla'shok; they would lay down their lives without a second thought. In the face of such courage, no one watching would be able to waver. We would face the Shadows and the Vorlons at our full strength, such as it was. Not enough for victory in a head-on fight; that went without saying. Whether it would be enough for what John had in mind, only time and the Universe knew.

**ooOoo**

The briefing went as we intended, one more step in the grim choreography of war. Sector 83 had taught the League something, and John's return from death had its desired effect. The first phase of our offensive, slowing the Vorlon advance, met with the silence of steely resolve. Even the second phase—forcing the Vorlons and the Shadows into direct confrontation—caused little uproar. The only question came from Ambassador Trkider, and he did not ask it with his usual bluster. He sounded almost pleading, willing to do his part but honestly afraid it would be for nothing. "How?" he said, meaning _how will you get the Shadows to Coriana Six_. "If they have avoided direct confrontation with the Vorlons, they will hardly come just because we ask them to."

Rather than tell them, John showed them. He opened a channel to White Star Fourteen, and with everyone listening, gave Captain Ericsson his orders. Every word made me flinch inside, though I showed nothing of it. For the sake of the White Star's captain and crew, I must be steadfast. I knew they would be, and could ask no less of myself.

Ericsson did not understand at first. Then, as comprehension dawned, the silence in the War Room grew thick enough to cut. For the span of a heartbeat, Ericsson looked bleak. Who was he leaving behind, I wondered, as John quietly asked if he were married. "No," he replied, and a distant part of me thanked the Universe for it. He doubtless had some family or friends, though, whose hearts would be torn at his death. All of them did—the full crew complement, fifty souls in all. Each one irreplaceable, someone's daughter or son or cousin, sister or brother, lover or friend. The thought made me want to weep. I had sent my Anla'shok into danger, asked them to risk their lives, but never before required them to lay those lives down. The weight of it lay on me like stone.

With quiet courage, Ericsson asked when the other four White Stars would arrive. The ones that would be allowed to escape, to fight another day.

John's response was equally subdued. "In ten to twelve hours." He did not say _good luck_ or _Godspeed_. There was no point.

Ericsson's gaze shifted to me. He raised his hands in a Minbari farewell—one over his heart, the other held out toward me. A gesture of kin to kin, of the heart as well as blood. "_Isil'zha veni_, Delenn. In Valen's name."

_He would be proud of you_, I thought as I returned the gesture. Sorrow closed my throat, and it was hard to give the brief ritual response. The comm screen went dark. By instinct, my gaze found John's. Sharing the burden, seeking solace, knowing there was none to be had. There was only duty, and sacrifice, and our obligation to ensure that neither was in vain.

**ooOoo**

"Come with me," I said quietly to Lennier after the briefing ended, some thirty minutes later. "I do not care to meditate alone just now." A perfect excuse to speak privately with him, though I doubted I was up to taking advantage of it. The effort to maintain a brave front was costing me dearly, knowing the fate to which John and I had just consigned White Star Fourteen. That we did it from bitter necessity kept guilt at bay, but grief was another matter. I found myself craving the silence of my quarters, the ritual focus on a tiny candle flame that would let me safely deal with the roiling emotions inside. Much as I loved him, John did not truly understand this aspect of me yet, and for once it was not his presence I wanted. Lennier, as dear to me as a brother, knew my need and shared it. That was what I wanted now.

In my quarters, Lennier retrieved and arranged the cushions while I fetched a candle. As I set it in its holder, I saw him looking curiously at the ring on my finger. He nodded toward it. "I have not seen you wear that before. It is very pretty."

"John gave it to me." Joy twined with sadness tugged at my heart. "It is an engagement ring. A human custom, a symbol of a promise to marry." Speaking those words warmed me, in spite of everything. They were a promise of so much—of hope, of faith, of life itself. All those things so dear to me that longing for them shook me to my core.

I took a moment to steady the candle and myself. When I glanced toward Lennier again, his gaze was still on the ring. He stood motionless, hardly seeming to breathe. Then he looked down as he settled himself on his cushion, and the odd moment was gone, so completely that I was not even sure I had seen it.

Confusion caught hold of me. _Had_ I seen it, and what did it mean? Or was I simply overwrought, thinking of White Star Fourteen and the final, terrible trial that awaited us all?

"You have accepted him, then?" Lennier said, apparently intent on arranging his cushion just so.

"Yes." _For the next twenty years_… I swallowed past a tightness in my throat. "Assuming we all live through the next few days."

He looked at me then, sudden and deep emotion raw in his face. Sorrow for those we had sent to die, and the many who still might; bitter knowledge that there was no choice; and empathy so total that his heart might have been my own. "We have done everything we could. What is meant—" He broke off, hands clenching in his lap. Slowly, as if in an act of will, he unclenched them. "We have done what we have done. What is meant to be, will come. Faith… manages."

Instinct made me reach toward him, my fingers brushing the edge of his palm. His hand closed briefly over them, a grip that bordered on painful. Then he let me go and took up the lighter. My sight blurred as I gazed at the unlit candle. I couldn't stop thinking of Ericsson and the rest—each a unique voice in the song of the Universe, each soon to be silenced. The ache in my heart for them was almost past bearing. "But at a price."

"Yes." His expression was grave. "There is always a price."

He lit the candle, and together we chanted the prayers for souls moving from one life to the next. If my voice, or his, was a little shakier than usual, was it any wonder? Captain Ericsson and his crew were on their way to a brave end. And not long afterward, we would be on our way through the fire ahead—to a miracle, or to oblivion.

**ooOoo**

We never had that private talk, Lennier and I. Events overtook us, and in the aftermath he simply… absented himself. Not physically; he was there at the final battle, piloting White Star Two with graceful efficiency, and in the days and weeks afterward he continued the same as ever on the surface. Yet a door had closed between us, and to my shame it took time before I noticed, let alone fully paid heed. There are hours even now when I recall that strange, still moment with the ring, and I wonder: Should I have seen then? What if I had—could I have helped him turn his heart onto another path, one that would let him love without shame or jealousy? One that would let him accept the same from me, even though it was not the love he wanted? A love no less than that I bore John, only different… though I never did make Lennier understand that in the little time left to us. I should have; as his mentor, it was my responsibility. I did try. That I failed is a grief to me still.

But all that lay on the far side of the fire, and none of it was in my mind as we executed our part of the battle plan and destroyed the few Vorlon observation posts in our path toward Coriana Six. As the last observation post fell to the White Stars' guns, I spared a thought for Centauri Prime, like Coriana Six a target on the Vorlons' list. Londo was there now, and Vir. The thought of them dead, their homeworld laid waste by a Vorlon planet-killer, made my blood turn cold. If Londo Mollari had any inkling of what havoc he would wreak by making common cause with Morden and the Shadows, he would have torn out his own hearts before giving Morden so much as a passing word. And we could do nothing to help. Every ship in our fleet was needed at Coriana Six, with twice as many people at risk there as lived on Centauri Prime. Six billion to three billion—a cruel game of numbers, as Marcus put it later. We could only pray our gambit here would draw off enough Vorlon ships to give the Centauri some chance of survival. Assuming any of us survived at all.

"We can't win, you know," John had said to me in the Zen garden, in that fraught hour before the final briefing aboard Babylon Five. "Not in a stand-up fight. The League'll know it too, on some level. Will they balk at the last minute? Or will my reputation as a miracle worker"—his tone turned bitterly sarcastic—"precede us, and they'll walk with us into the lions' den anyway?"

"But there will not be a 'stand-up fight.' Or so I presume, or we would not be having this conversation." He would not draw our fleet, the last hope of countless worlds, into a noble but futile last stand. I knew that bone-deep. Precisely what he _did_ have in mind was not yet clear, but I trusted him. "What exactly are you planning at Coriana Six?"

"It's just this." Again he paced around the garden. "It's bothered me, that when you wanted to lead the White Stars and other ships against Z'ha'dum, the Vorlons weren't first in line to sign up. And before that, even though the Shadows went after Kosh personally once the Vorlons drove them off from Brakiri space, they didn't attack the Vorlons in general. Just him. This isn't about territory, or even about vanquishing a rival in the usual sense. It's about who's right. Order versus chaos. Directed—manipulated—development versus survival of the so-called fittest, the law of the jungle." He caught my eye, his gaze hard. "That's what they claimed on Z'ha'dum. When the Shadows still thought they could convince me to join them. They made it sound so damned noble: the crucible of war and chaos, testing our mettle and ensuring that only the strongest survived. And then…"

He broke off and stared at the waterfall. Its quiet music seemed to soothe him. More quietly, he resumed speaking. "Some of the things Lorien said later, while I was… falling, started to make sense. That this was an old conflict, that it made him sad to see his children fight. And I thought, what if we're the children now? What if they're fighting over us? Or at least, those of us who'll be left once they get done with their killing spree."

"They want there to be survivors." I could barely take in the horror of the pointless slaughter he was describing. "Witnesses. To… what? Bow down to the eventual victor?" Heartsick, I turned away. "How will we even know who that _is_? Which side has slain the greatest number of 'lesser races'? Or destroyed the most once-living planets?"

"I don't know." He sounded as wretched as I felt. Then, with renewed strength: "But we're not just going to sit and take it anymore. We're entitled to the truth. We're going to make them come together, with us in the middle. Make them admit what this whole damned war is really about. I don't know what happens after that. Maybe they'll go after each other and do enough damage that we can finish them off. Or fight them to a standstill. Hell, when I put it that way it sounds crazy. But something keeps telling me this is the only way. That if we force both sides to face each other on the battlefield, something will shake loose. Something big, something…"

My reply was just above a whisper. "Something to give us our miracle."

A deep breath shook him, almost a shudder. "Yeah. And please God we'll get one before another world dies."

So we came to Coriana Six, and did what we could to bolster our chances. Marcus and Lyta, with a few other White Stars, had seeded the system with nuclear warheads, strategically placed on various asteroids to be used as weapons of last resort. And Susan would hopefully come soon with such of the other First Ones as remained—though it troubled me, as I spoke to our fleet captains via the all-ships channel on the White Star's secondary bridge, that Susan and Lorien had not yet reported in. Before long, at least one of our adversaries would arrive. We needed the other First Ones, assuming Susan and Lorien had found any…

An incoming signal broke my train of thought. The channel was White Star Eleven's. Susan's ship. I dropped out of the captains' briefing temporarily to take the call.

The bridge of White Star Eleven, with a smiling Susan in the captain's chair, flashed up on a nearby comm screen. "We found them, Delenn," she said. "All the remaining First Ones. Lorien knew exactly where to look. They'll be there in time for the party, and so will we. Tell John we're en route, will you? We should be there on time."

Her news, welcome though it was, meant infinitely less to me than the sight of her. My relief was so intense, it almost hurt. Temptation rose in me then, strong as a storm wind. _Don't come_, I wanted to say. _Go back to Babylon Five and stay, be safe there_. That one person I cared for should be out of harm's way, at least for awhile… was that so much to ask? I could give an excuse, tell her we needed someone to hold things together on Babylon Five just in case…

_No_. My wayward thoughts made me ashamed. Susan wished to be here, at the end. Who was I to take that from her? I had tried to choose John's fate, and we both paid a bitter price. How could I even contemplate doing it again?

Yet something in me couldn't resist trying. "Wait," I said, as she leaned forward to sever the comm link. "I will tell John—but let me get final confirmation."

She tilted her head, with a defiant look as she settled back in her chair. "Don't tell me to go back and mind the store. Because it's not going to happen."

My hands came together, fingers twining around each other. She caught the gesture and her face softened. "Please," I said. "It will only take a moment."

"Okay." Her gentle tone let me know she had guessed everything I wasn't saying. "Go ahead. But I know what he'll tell you."

I took two minutes to end the captains' briefing, then hurried to the main bridge.

**ooOoo**

She was right, of course. John had promised her she would be at the final battle, and he would not break his word. I bowed to the inevitable and returned to the secondary bridge. The Universe would have its way; and though I still wished I could safeguard Susan, I had to acknowledge an odd comfort in the thought that this human heart-sister of mine—and of John's as well—would be with us after all.

"He says to come in, and to hurry," I told her. My lips twitched as I recalled the exact words he had used. "I believe his precise orders were to 'haul ass.' Which I assume is a reference to one's hind end, as I see no donkeys in evidence."

She laughed outright. In the background, some paces behind the captain's chair, I saw Lorien looking puzzled. Human idioms were not his strong point. "Trust you to come up with that, even at a time like this," Susan said. "Consider us hauling ass. And Delenn…"

"Yes?" Our gazes held on the screen, and in her face I read all the things she would have said if we could spare the time. All the things we would not be able to say until after, if there was one. Her eyes were over-bright, and I knew my own expression was speaking my heart to her as well.

"We'll come through," she said. "Don't ask me how I know. I just do."

My smile only wavered a little. "A wise woman once told me, 'Susan Ivanova knows everything.' I have learned over time to believe her."

Her quiet response was heartfelt. "Godspeed, Delenn. You and John both. See you on the other side." She cut the connection then, and her image winked out.

"And you, _shonamai_," I murmured, though she could no longer hear.


	45. Chapter 45

**Author's Note: **This chapter covers the rest of "Into the Night" and includes dialogue quoted from that episode. As always, gapfillers and scene extensions are my own.

I have always wondered what the massive gestalt between Delenn and the Shadows, John and the Vorlons, Lorien, and all those present at Coriana Six felt like from Delenn's perspective. How much was she aware of that she didn't directly experience? How quickly did she figure out what was happening? What was it like to deal with the Shadows in the form of her dearest friends? What follows is my answer; I hope you enjoy it.

**Part 46—Crucible**

The next several hours crept by. We finished our preparations, fine-tuned our battle plan even more than we already had, found any task we could to eat up a few minutes here, another minute there… and I tried not to count their passage, slow and inexorable as the rainbow crawlers on the shores of Minbar's vast Inland Sea. At one point I found myself by a forward viewport, staring out at our catch-all fleet silhouetted against the softly glowing curve of Coriana Six, my thoughts an incoherent prayer to a Universe I could only hope was listening. _No more killing_, I pleaded. _If _we_ must die, then we must—but let us save _them_, let Coriana survive… and Centauri Prime, and all the other worlds in danger…_

Warmth at my back told me John was there a heartbeat before he took my hand. "It's the worst part, isn't it?" he said. "The waiting, and all you can think of are the thousand ways things could go wrong…"

I leaned against him, drawing strength and lending him mine. "I am grateful for one thing most of all," I said softly.

His reply was equally soft. "What's that?"

"That you are here with me, at the end." My grip on his hand tightened as I thought of how near I had come to leading a similar fleet into a terrible, final battle at Z'ha'dum. With effort, I banished the memory—the wrenching loss of his death, how _alone_ I had felt without him—and managed a smile. "However it goes, it will be an end of something."

"'The end of the beginning.'" His free hand brushed my cheek. Then, reluctantly, he turned watched him walk slowly back to the command chair, I realized I had never loved him more than at that moment.

Lyta, in the prow of the White Star, was picking up nothing yet. Her eyes had a glassy look, the unfocused stare of a telepath "listening" for other minds. Vorlon minds, Shadow minds. The thought made me shudder. I needed to get away from it—and if I remained here, prowling from station to station in an attempt to distract myself, my restless anxiety would infect everyone else. Without clear thought as to where I would go, I left the bridge.

Two minutes' walk brought me to an empty crew cabin. I went in and paced up and down, fighting for control. Everything was riding on this gambit of John's, forcing the Vorlons and the Shadows to face each other on the field of battle. All so that _something_ would happen—some miracle we could not give word or shape to. It was madness… and it was all we had. All we ever had, when it came down to it—determination and stubborn hope, two things no power in the Universe could take away. I thought of G'Kar then—the embodiment of stubborn hope if ever there was one. Strong, proud, endlessly defiant in the face of impossible odds. Where was he now, I wondered—dead at Centauri hands, or still alive and breathing in defiance of his captors?

I closed my eyes and conjured up his face. Ritual words ancient as time left my lips: "_Ie t'zalan, osol'mai_." _I honor your memory, old friend_.

Little as it was, this small act brought me some sense of calm. I took a moment to absorb the feeling, then left the empty crew quarters behind. John would need me on the bridge.

**ooOoo**

It was a near thing in the end. To this day, I cannot truly say what saved us. The First Ones played their role, destroying the Vorlon planet-killer before it could wreak havoc on Coriana Six. Our fleet fought bravely, though at the cost of ships we could ill afford and lives it wrenched my heart to lose. And Lorien… but I cannot sum up his part in a mere sentence or two. I lived it, was in fact a focal point of it, yet it is still hard to find words for what he did. What _we _did: Lorien, John, me, and all who saw and heard—through us—the truth too long denied.

I remember the initial battle, the massive explosion of the Vorlon planet-killer as the First Ones made short work of it. And Lennier just seconds later, hollow-voiced as if the heart had gone from him: "The Vorlons are calling in reinforcements. They're calling in all of their other ships."

The chill in my blood deepened. We could not reach the Vorlons; they had not responded to John, to Lyta's telepathic pleas, to anything. Lorien's entrance onto the bridge just then seemed like our last hope. Surely the Vorlons would listen to the Eldest of All…

He came up beside me, grave-faced. "Can you try to get through?" I asked. "Tell them to—"

A woman's voice, high and cold, cut through the air. "There is nothing to tell." Lyta, but _not _Lyta. Something _other_, speaking through her. She turned to face us, and I saw with horror that her eyes glowed blue-white. There was no mistaking the arrogant, icy rage that fueled whatever had taken control of her. "You thought we could not touch you," she said, her unnatural gaze fixed on John. "You were wrong."

Lightning shot from her. John went rigid as it touched him, then motionless. Trapped in a glittering energy net like an insect in amber.

I cried out and ran toward him. I heard Lorien shout _No_, and _if you interrupt, it will kill him_. That halted me an arm's length from John, heart thudding against my ribs. The Vorlons had him, surely. What were they doing to him? Was this some new cruelty, some punishment because he had defied them?

Not-Lyta spoke again. A different _other_ had hold of her now—a Shadow _other_, turning her gaze a depthless black. "And you," she said, smooth and cutting as a silken knife, "they have left for us."

Topaz fire leaped out from her, engulfed me. The burn of it was so painful I could not even cry out. I heard Lennier shout my name and Lorien respond, but his words made no sense. I was going away somewhere, a swift and terrifying journey. And I could not move a muscle to save myself.

With all the willpower left in me, I managed to turn my head a fraction toward Lorien. Or at least where he had been… my sense of place was jumbled, insecure. He was there, gazing at me… and what I saw in his face made me even more afraid. Sorrow, trepidation—and a thin edge of hope, as if he had known this would happen. Intended it, even.

_Why_, I asked, but only in my mind. My lips were as unnaturally still as the rest of me; I could not even feel myself breathing. I was falling, falling down a tunnel of fire toward a dark place at its heart. Then, as I rushed toward the darkness, Lorien answered.

_All will be well, young one_. _If you will trust me for just a little longer._

_ John? What of him?_

_ He is safe. In a different place, but safe for now. As you are._

I glimpsed him then—John—half in darkness, outlined in blue-white light. Safe and whole, as Lorien had told me. And then I saw Lorien, at the receding end of my fire-tunnel. He stood on the White Star bridge, surrounded by glimmering dots of colored light. He reached for them, and when he touched them, they became gleaming threads that he wove into a shimmering skein. Even before I could frame the question—_what are you doing_?—I felt part of myself being drawn into the skein. Woven through it, a slender moonlight-silver thread.

With every turn of the thread came a whisper in my mind's ear. One, ten, a hundred… then too many to count. A multitude, a roar inside my head like a thunderstorm high in the mountains where I was born.

The darkness was close now. Lorien reached out, took up one more thread of light: bright gold, like sunshine. The golden thread crossed my own and suddenly John was there. Not his body, but an awareness of him within me, as real and solid as if I held him in my arms.

Lorien's "voice" rose briefly above the rest. _Trust yourselves, children—and let what will happen, happen_.

And then the fire-tunnel vanished as its dark heart engulfed me.

**ooOoo**

The falling sensation stopped abruptly. I was standing, shaky but unhurt, in a cavernous chamber dimly lit by a fitful orange glow. Like a hearth-fire at night, only there was nothing warming about it. The shadows that surrounded me seemed thicker, darker, by comparison.

_Shadows, indeed_, I thought, but not even black humor could keep my fears at bay. Alone in a room scant-lit and silent, with the looming knowledge of an unknown ordeal to be faced… It smacked of the Inquisitor, made my heart stutter and my breath come too fast. The ancient enemy had me in their power. Why had they brought me here? What would they do to me? The White Star and Lorien seemed terribly far away. I thought of John, captive of the Vorlons as I was of the Shadows, and shivered. He was safe, Lorien had said. I held his image in my mind, and again felt an awareness of him deep within. I could see and hear nothing of what was happening to him, but I sensed Lorien had spoken truly: he was not in peril. At least not yet.

I took a calming breath and slowly let it out. The Shadows had brought me here for a reason, much as the Vorlons had John. Time to have it out in the open. "I am here," I said, with what bravado I could muster. "Whatever is to happen, we may as well begin."

A low laugh came from a darkened corner. A laugh I recognized. _Illusion_, I reminded myself as Susan Ivanova stalked toward me out of the darkness. _They merely speak through her image. She is not truly here._

"The Vorlons haven't crushed all the spirit out of you, at least," not-Susan said. The cynical smirk she wore was not an expression I had ever seen on the real Susan's face. "Good. That means there's hope."

"A strange word for you to choose," I said. "You who are destroyers of hope, and of so much else."

She raised an eyebrow, in a gesture horribly like Susan's own. "Is that how you see us, still? They've done their work well, your Vorlon puppetmasters." She began prowling around me. "So. Let me enlighten you. The Vorlons stand for order more than anything else. No passion, no dreams… just discipline. Obedience. They're frozen in place; an evolutionary dead end. Why side with the old?" She came close then; it was all I could do not to shrink back. A note of seduction crept into her voice. "Embrace the new. Growth through pain and conflict, struggle… and war." The smile that lit her features at that word gave them a cold and terrible beauty. "You of all people should understand this."

A moment more she stood before me—still smiling, eyes locked with mine, making certain I had caught the full extent of her meaning. I fought not to show the shame that rushed through me. The Earth-Minbari War, she meant. The conflict I had started with a few careless words. Killing words born of rage and grief, words I never should have spoken. And I was meant to embrace _this_? Accept the rightness of countless innocents slain, an entire people nearly slaughtered? Susan's people, John's people, whom I had come to value more than I could say. I was meant to embrace _that_, to acquiesce in its happening to others. Again and again, until the Shadows' purpose had been served… I drew breath to speak, to refute the terrible implications, but not-Susan turned and left before I could utter a sound. She vanished into a patch of gloom, from which another figure emerged. Stephen this time—or rather, not-Stephen. The face and form were his, but grossly distorted with malice and triumph.

"Your race came out of the last war stronger," he said. "Better. How much better? How much stronger will they be after this war?" He paused as if awaiting my answer, but I had none. The cruelty of the question, and the vision that inspired it, robbed me of capacity to respond.

A sneer lifted his mouth. "You will rise from the ashes with a strength and power beyond your imagination," he said, his voice edged with scorn that I had not the wit to appreciate such wisdom. Then, like not-Susan, he walked away.

I managed to speak just before the darkness swallowed him. "Until you do it to us again…"

From the other side of the chamber, a third voice. I should have expected this one, but shock engulfed me all the same. Lennier. Not Lennier, I reminded myself as he came closer. I was trembling now, deep inside where they could not see. Who else that I loved would come stalking out of the darkness, a mouthpiece for the Shadows? Would it be John next, his handsome face turned ugly with the harsh light of bloodlust in his eyes?

"It is the cycle," not-Lennier said. The sound of his voice made my throat hurt. Illusion or no, it was so like the tone Lennier himself used when working out a problem or coming to terms with something. Reasoned, analytical, detached… though never so detached as this. And never so smugly self-righteous. "It is the force of history itself," he went on. "You cannot win against that. We have embraced it. Helped it along, by creating conflict. Weak races die. Strong races are made even stronger. Evolution must be served." He leaned toward me and whispered in my ear: "There is no other way."

I shuddered as he turned and left. My own Lennier had said those same words once, in MedLab when Marcus lay near-dead from the terrible beating Neroon had given him. _For the greater part to live, some must die_, Lennier had told me then. _There is no other way…_

Anger shot through me, that the Shadows would twist that hard truth into a self-serving lie. "No!" I shouted after not-Lennier's retreating figure. "That is what _you_ want us to believe!" Beneath the echo of my words, I heard John's voice. Felt his righteous outrage, so like my own, as he challenged the Vorlons: "_That's why you're really doing this. That's why you've been targeting planets that support the Shadows rather than destroying Z'ha'dum itself. You don't want to kill the messenger; you just want to kill the message. Make it harder for them to get to us. Guarantee that we do things your way_."

They were two sides of the same coin, I realized in a blinding moment of illumination. The Shadows and the Vorlons, both enslaved to a cold and ugly conviction that would shrivel in the light of knowledge. Contempt banished my fear and unleashed my tongue. "And you want the Vorlons to watch your triumph. That is why you haven't gone after them. You killed Kosh Naranek, yes—in the dark of night, like the cowards you are. But you have not faced their full might directly in battle. You won't, because it doesn't fit with your plans. You kill innocents instead, fomenting wars and delighting in destruction. You want the Vorlons to see it, to know they cannot stop it. After all, if you destroy the Vorlons, they'll never know you won. They'll never see that you were right, and they were wrong. It's about ideology!"

"Of course. What isn't?" Marcus's voice this time, smooth and cold as glacier ice. His Shadow-copy came toward me out of the darkness. He moved with Marcus's grace, overlaid with an imperious air utterly foreign to the Ranger I knew. "Order versus chaos," not-Marcus continued as he reached me, with a scornful curl to his lip. "Choose one."

So certain of things, he was. They all were—all the Shadow-selves that had been thrown at me in this pointless game. If they would not hear me, then clearly I needed stronger words. "Yes, choose. But only from the choices _you_ give us. Don't you see that this is wrong? When the other First Ones passed beyond the Rim, you stayed behind. As guardians, shepherds for the younger races. But you lost your way. This isn't about teaching us, or helping us. This is about you being right!" And they were wrong, so tragically wrong. How many more had to die before they acknowledged it?

That thought pushed me to the edge of despair. Then a new thought took hold. A breath of hope, a glimmer in the dark. Perhaps we did not need them to acknowledge it. Perhaps we did not need the Vorlons and the Shadows to choose to end their fight for our allegiance, choose to spare us more conflict and death. Perhaps _we_ could choose for ourselves. "What if we reject the idea that we must decide which of you is right? What if we simply walk away?"

The last syllable had scarcely left my lips when _she_ appeared. Coalescing from nothing, as if they could not let my question linger even for a second. My Shadow-self, my own face looking back at me. The leashed fury in her eyes hinted at danger should it be loosed. I knew this other self, fury and all. Years ago I had given such rage free rein and caused the deaths of thousands.

"You cannot do that," my Shadow-self said. Oh, she was arrogant, this one. It was in her voice, her face, the way she stood before me. Utterly convinced of her rightness, and of her power to bend us to her will.

_We hear_, Lorien whispered in my mind. _We hear it all, as you do…_

At his words, my hope strengthened. I understood his purpose now, and what I had to do. _So that everyone may understand…_ Carefully, I chose my next words. Billions of lives depended on them. "The war will never end?"

Her hard gaze did not waver. "That is correct."

Softly I spoke now, so softly. As if beaten, broken, spent. "Then there is no hope?"

Her eyes held triumph at my apparent capitulation. "There is only chaos, and evolution. You will fight because we tell you to fight."

In my mind then came the echo of the Vorlon speaking to John: "_You will die for us when we tell you to die for us. Because the others know no other way._" And John's reply: "_That's where you're wrong_."

How other-Delenn heard it, I don't know. Or why she did and not the others. She was my dark twin, another self I might have been; perhaps the connection lay there. But hear she did, and she was not pleased. She stiffened, eyes widening in surprise and then darkening with wrath. Her voice turned hard as granite. "You've let them see. You've let them know!"

A charge built up in the air. My skin crawled as if at the approach of lightning. Darkness fell abruptly; the only source of light was Shadow-Delenn's face, eyes sparking, features contorted with rage. Then another flash of light behind me. I turned and saw Lorien. I took his outstretched hand, and suddenly I was no longer in that dark place. I was wrapped in mist, pearl-grey shot through with light, Lorien's palm dry and leathery against my own. A strong grip, reassuring; I knew he would not let go. And then John was there too, safe in the mist with us. From somewhere far distant behind him came the sharp crack of shattering ice.

_You have done it_, Lorien said. _I think_. I heard pride in his voice, and affection, and hope taut as a harp string.

_Done what?_ I asked.

_We will see_, he said. And then we were rushing through the mist, driven onward as if by a blizzard wind.

**ooOoo**

The impact of arrival back in my own body drove the breath from me. I staggered and would have fallen had Lorien not held me up. The bridge of the White Star felt like a refuge. My gaze met John's, and then we were in each other's arms as if drawn by the force of gravity. I could have stayed there forever, holding him safe from harm, but Lennier's sharp call—"Captain, look!"—claimed everyone's attention.

When I saw what prompted his outcry, my blood froze. A vast dark cloud was roiling toward us, a cloud that should not have existed in the vacuum of space. Relentless as a tidal wave, it surrounded our White Star. With it came a biting chill deeper than the worst night of a Minbari winter. The darkness covered the viewports, blotting out everything around us: Coriana Six, the distant stars, the nearby ships of our fleet.

Ivanova's voice crackled over the comm. "Captain? Can you receive?" She was crisp and to the point, but I heard the edge of fear beneath.

John answered with a question, the one that mattered most: "Did you see? Did the rest of the fleet hear what they said?"

Yes, she said, they all heard. And saw. But the dark cloud and bitter cold had engulfed them too. Marcus interrupted then—there were missiles all around us, he said, and the cold had shut down the jump engines. Ours and the rest of the fleet's. Whether from the missiles or the cold, we would be dead within minutes.

White-faced with disbelief, anger and exhaustion, John turned to Lorien. "Is that _it_? We come all this way, we figure it out, and now they don't want us to leave? They'd rather let us die here than get in the way of their little war?"

Lorien had resumed his habitual calm, a reaction I could scarcely fathom… until he answered, with a gesture toward a corner of the bridge. They were not quite finished yet, he said as a Shadow and a Vorlon materialized there. "They're giving you a chance to change your mind. Ask forgiveness. Choose." He continued with a note of caution. "Your next words will decide which way this goes. I cannot help you."

So, then. This was the moment that would save or damn us. On my shoulders and John's, fallible beings that we were, rested the survival of billions. I should have been terrified, and perhaps I was—so terrified that I could not acknowledge it, lest I shatter into a thousand pieces then and there. My awareness narrowed to three things: the Shadow and the Vorlon standing before us, the slow beating of my heart, and the presence of John beside me.

In the brief silence that fell, John and I turned to face our foes. So attuned were we in that moment, I could have spoken his thoughts for him, and he mine. "The Vorlons ask only one question, over and over," John said. "'Who are you?' And you"—he pointed at the Shadow—"for you, the question is, 'What do you want?' I've never heard you answer that question. Who are _you_? What do _you_ want?"

Silence fell again. The Vorlon and the Shadow said nothing. They simply waited—and in that waiting, I felt the stirring of a wholly unexpected sympathy. They had killed so many, been the instruments of death through mutual destruction for countless others… and for what? For nothing even they could put a name to, despite their claims that everything they had done was right. Not only right, but inevitable, the one true way of all existence.

My own voice broke the quiet. "You don't know, do you? You've been fighting each other so long, you've forgotten. You've lost your way. So how can you guide us? How can we learn who we are, and what we want, if you don't even know it anymore?"

"It doesn't matter which side wins this today," John said. "A thousand years from now it'll start all over again. You're trapped in this cycle as much as we are. But we can't afford it anymore. We don't need it. We don't need _you_. We've learned how to stand on our own. We'll make mistakes, but they'll be our mistakes, not yours."

_How terrible_, I thought, _not to be needed_… but they had brought it on themselves. Through arrogance and folly, and unwillingness to see any side but their own, they had thrown away thousands upon thousands of years of goodwill… of friendship, trust, even adulation. I did not want to feel pity for them; that I did anyway only deepened my anger. "Your secret is out," I said. "All these other races know you for who you are. So what now?"

The Vorlon's answer showed they had learned nothing. "You do not speak for the rest."

In a chilling echo of Morden's voice, the Shadow said, "They will not follow if you are dead."

A proximity alarm shrieked; a missile was approaching. There was no time even to be afraid. I gripped John's hand, waiting for impact, but none came. Instead, a bloom of light briefly cut through the dark cloud that surrounded us.

Next to me, John stiffened. As the flare of brightness died, he glanced toward Lennier's station. "What ship was that?" he asked, with the brittle calm of one who does not want an answer.

"A Drazi warship," Lennier replied. "The _Str'ka_. They took the hit for us." He paused, then resumed in wonderment. "The other ships are moving in. Surrounding us…"

The alarm shrieked again. Another explosion lit the darkness. A Minbari cruiser this time, Lennier said—the worker caste ship _Khazonn_. I thought of the men and women aboard her, obliterated in a heartbeat with not even a scrap of ash left to scatter over their birthplaces, and turned the force of my fury and anguish against the Shadow and Vorlon both. "The others have rejected you. How can you have a war when no one will fight for either of you?"

John spoke with equal force. "We refuse to take sides in this any more. And we refuse to let you turn us against one another. We know who we are now. We can find our own way between order and chaos."

"You can kill us one by one," I said. "And those who follow us. And those who follow them. On and on—every race, every planet, until there is no one left to kill. You will have failed as guardians—and you will be alone."

John took a step toward them, his threat unmistakable. "It's over, because we've decided it's over. Now get the hell out of our galaxy! Both of you!"

His words rang across the bridge. Again, the Vorlon and the Shadow did not respond. It seemed we had rendered them speechless. After a moment of quiet, Lorien spoke instead. To them, not to us yet. He was gentle with them, far gentler than they deserved… but he was ancient beyond measure, and despite all they had wrought, the Shadows and the Vorlons were his children still. It was time to leave, he told them. Time to let us go, let us stand on our own with everything we had learned. He promised to come with them beyond the Rim; above all, he said, they would never be alone.

The kindness in his voice was vast as an ocean. My anger left me, swift as a blown-out candle. Suddenly I could have wept for the sorrow of it—all the dead in both Shadow Wars, the futility of our onetime guardians' struggle for our allegiance that the conflict itself had cost them. Yet still, Lorien forgave them. As John forgave me, as I forgave MacIntyre of the _Prometheus_ for obeying the order to fire. As we all hope to be forgiven our transgressions, however grave they are.

They listened, and accepted, Shadow and Vorlon—and then faded away slowly, until there was only Lorien to say farewell. We had taught him a little something about love, it seemed; his voice caught as he spoke, as if it pained him to depart from us. He left us with a sacred charge: to teach the races that would follow us, and then to step aside and let them grow into their own destiny. "If your races survive, if you don't kill yourselves, I look forward to the day when you will join us beyond the Rim." He was fading as he spoke. His final words—"We will wait for you"—hung in the air as he vanished in a shimmer of stars.

A faint glow remained after he had gone. Or so I thought, at first. Then I realized that the glow came from the distant stars and from Coriana Six, illuminated by its sun on the far side. I stared out the nearest viewport, momentarily unable to accept what I was seeing. Then, from the helm, Lennier spoke.

"Captain… they're gone," he said. So quiet. Hesitant, as if voicing a wish he didn't quite dare believe in.

John blinked, looking dazed. "Who's gone?"

"All of them." Wonder lit Lennier's face. "The Shadows, the Vorlons. Every ship in both their fleets. The missiles, too. The cloud. Everything."

The comm lit up then, a cacophony of questioning voices spilling into the air. Susan's rose above the rest—clear and sharp, balanced on the knife edge between fear and hope. "Captain? John? Did we—are we seeing what I think we're seeing? Is it over?"

John kept an arm tight around me as if my presence anchored him to reality. "We won," he said slowly, and glanced at me. "We won… didn't we?"

I couldn't speak, could only nod. We had fought so hard and lost so much for this moment, not knowing if it would ever come. Now that it had, it was overwhelming. I couldn't make sense of it, didn't know whether to dance or weep.

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. When he opened them, I saw they were wet. I guessed his thought: he had died for this, lost some forty human years or more of what should have been his life. _Our_ life, together. This victory could not change that. Yet victory it was, now and for generations to come. Loss and gain, sorrow and joy, gift and price—two sides of a coin, two threads in a tapestry. With the third to be whatever we made of it, ourselves alone.

His shoulders straightened, and the role of command settled over him like Valen's cloak. "All ships," he said, his voice gathering strength as he continued. "The day is ours. The war is won. Stand down, and let's head for home."


	46. Chapter 46

**Author's Note: **This chapter covers most, but not all, of the Season Four episode "Epiphanies". The usual disclaimer applies; the characters and overall story arc belong to JMS, though the gapfiller scenes are my own.

For story purposes, I have taken a slight liberty with the timing of the ISN broadcast referring to Earth's quarantine of B-5. Also, the Minbari practice of _shan'diya _is my own invention, providing the excuse for Delenn's relatives to summon her home in "Atonement". As always, reviews and comments are appreciated.

**Part 46—Undercurrents**

The journey back to Babylon Five, I recall now in flashes of memory. Shouts and laughter, songs and tears and prayers over the comm, echoing from ship to ship as we hung in space near Coriana Six and took time to savor our victory. Lennier at our White Star's helm, laying in coordinates for home, eyes bright as if lit from within. Then turning toward John and me and bowing to us both, with the kind of reverence offered to sages and heroes of legend. _If we merit this, then so do you_, I remember telling him as he stood by me, the pair of us clasping hands and touching foreheads, sharing the moment we had spent so long striving toward. Though I knew even as I spoke that he did not believe me. Sadly, he never would.

Marcus stood by a viewport with his gaze fixed on the stars, a look in his eyes that told me he was seeing something else. Memories, perhaps, of the slain brother whose path he had followed in an act of homage. There was joy in his face, and grief, and an overwhelming sense of having laid down a burden. I left him to his reverie. Any word of mine would only break its delicate balance, and I had no wish to intrude.

I remember sitting in a quiet corner with Lyta, asking: _What will you do now_? And her answer, long in coming as she gazed out at the passing swirls of hyperspace, a dazed look in her eyes and the marks of dried tears on her cheeks. _Buy myself a pillow. And a bed. And a chair. And some stuff for my walls. And some books._ The slow glimmer of a smile. _Yeah. Definitely some books_. _Print ones you can pick up and hold, and smell the paper when you turn the pages_. She took my hand in a brief, warm grip, both of us expressing through that handclasp everything we couldn't find words for.

And then there was Susan. Thick with emotion, her voice had cut through the comm chatter within minutes of the jump to hyperspace: "I'm on my way over. Don't you dare start the party without me."

"Permission to come aboard granted," John said, grinning even as he blinked tears from his eyes. "We'll see you when we see you." He saw me near him then, reached out and pulled me close. The warmth of him against me was bittersweet. I could not ignore the thready whisper in my mind, _this is the first moment of the next twenty years_…

I nestled closer to shut the whisper out. Now was for happiness. What would come later, would come in its own good time.

We were still standing like that when Susan strode onto the bridge. Arms outstretched, face bright as a small sun, she aimed toward us like an arrow from a bow. The three of us clung together in silence for an endless minute. "We did it," she said finally, her voice trembling and exultant. "We _did_ it. _You_ did it. I know it's not over, I know there'll be fallout, I know Earth is still a huge crazy mess, but…" She laughed then—a rich, carefree sound I had not heard from her since the earliest days of our friendship, when the Shadow War and the Vorlons' betrayal were mere wisps of storm cloud on the horizon. "By God, we get to savor this. At least until we get home."

A flicker of motion caught my eye. Drawn by the happy commotion of Susan's arrival, Marcus had left his spot by the viewport and now stood near us. He held himself tentatively, all his attention on Susan where she stood between John and me.

She glanced over, and their gazes met. Her triumphant warrior's grin gave way to a softer smile. "Ah, hell," she said, then gently disengaged from us and engulfed Marcus in a close embrace.

His arms locked around her as if around a treasure he could never too fiercely protect. Even with his eyes shut, his whole heart was visible in his face. It belonged to Susan Ivanova, and would until the day he died.

**ooOoo**

After our return, John and I lost ourselves for a precious few hours amid the celebration that greeted our arrival back on Babylon Five. Strangers came out of the crowds of revelers in the Zocalo and everywhere, different races all alike in the thanks and blessings they gave. A human fruit-seller whose shop I favored pressed a bag of oranges into my hands. "No charge," he said, and disappeared back into the throng. Narn refugees scattered desert flowers at our feet, a gesture normally reserved for their most honored sages. People were half-mad with joy, and for a time, so were we. And if some small part of us held back, caught by the knowledge of the price we had paid, that was no one's business but our own.

The one sour note came, unexpectedly, from Mr. Garibaldi. He had not been there to greet us in the docking bay, but we thought little of that—as head of Security, his work was never done, and I assumed he was needed elsewhere. Not until well into the festivities did he appear, announcing his presence with a joking remark. Not his usual cynical good humor, either. A joke with an edge to it, like the whisper of a blade from a scabbard.

"Nice job saving the universe," he said, fixing John with a hard-eyed gaze and a smile that bordered on a sneer. "What've you got planned for an encore? Walking on water?"

I didn't understand the reference, but his scornful expression was distressingly clear. The flash of irritation in John's face showed he didn't appreciate the look or the words. He tamped it down, managed a grin and met Garibaldi's jest with one of his own: "Right now, some sleep. I'll keep you posted." And he took my arm and gently steered me away, heading us out of the Zocalo into the quieter corridors beyond.

Not until we were out of Garibaldi's sight did I relax enough to take a full breath. I could feel him watching us go, his gaze fixed on every step we took. Disturbing, and most unlike him. "What was that about?"

John looked troubled, pulling me closer with an arm around my waist. "I wish I knew, love. I wish I knew."

**ooOoo**

With such exhilaration in the air, I felt tempted to spend that night with John, but with no _shan'fal_ or even _shan'diya_ yet, my better sense counseled otherwise. I had bent tradition far enough as it was, sufficiently to make me somewhat apprehensive about the necessary trip home to Minbar for the _shan'diya_, the formal notification to my clan of my intent to marry. Not too apprehensive, though. After John's actions in the Shadow War, I felt reasonably confident that "Sheridan Starkiller" was a thing of the past. As to John's being human, if my clan had learned to accept my own half-human state, they could surely accept a full human as well—especially one of such courage and honor as he had proved himself to be.

Thus it was that I was in my quarters when Marcus arrived early the next morning, brimful of excitement. "I have good news and possibly good news," he said when I let him in and invited him to join me for breakfast. "Which would you like me to start with?"

"The good news, please." I poured Marcus a cup of tea and waited.

He took a silent moment in memory of Valen—a poignant act now for all of us who had known Sinclair—then grinned as he leaned forward and wrapped his hands around the teacup. "G'Kar is alive. Alive and on his way here. I heard not half an hour ago."

My breath left me in a happy rush. "Alive and well? You are certain?" I felt overwhelmed, could scarcely take it in. We had been through so much, suffered so many losses and setbacks before the war's end, that I was no longer used to joy unleavened by sorrow.

"As certain as I am of my name. Some Rangers saw him boarding a transport on Narn. It ought to reach here in the next couple of days." He sipped tea. "The story is, the Narns asked him to take charge of things now their homeworld's free, but he turned them down."

"I am not surprised." G'Kar had never lusted for power the way Londo did, had only ever wanted it as a means to safeguard his people's hard-won freedom. Thoughts of Londo led me to wonder what part he had played in G'Kar's survival and release from Centauri custody. He surely had some hand in it, and I said as much to Marcus.

"That brings me to the possibly good news. Though we'll have to see how it plays out." He sipped more tea and continued. "Emperor Cartagia is dead. Collapsed amid the confusion of an imminent Vorlon attack on Centauri Prime, they say. An attack that never took place, seeing as their ships arrived and then left abruptly without firing a shot." He gave me a conspiratorial look. Both of us knew precisely what had called those ships away at the final, critical moment.

"What exactly happened? Do we know?"

"According to an eyewitness account told to a Ranger—over several cups of _brivari_, I might add—Cartagia suffered a sudden, fatal heart attack. In the throne room, while G'Kar was being paraded for his amusement. Apparently G'Kar broke free of his restraints and charged the throne. He didn't kill Cartagia, though. The Emperor's honor guard wrestled him down before he got that far. Cartagia keeled over while they were busy subduing him."

"Convenient." I chose not to voice what I was thinking, though I had little doubt Marcus was thinking it too.

"Very." He gave a wry smile. "I shall have to ask Londo for the whole story sometime. Or Vir. He was there as well. Be interesting to see what they tell me. Over several cups of _brivari_, of course."

He took his leave soon after, and I went to dress. I could hardly wait to tell John.

**ooOoo**

I found him in his office, half-eaten breakfast on his desk and the comm screen tuned to an ISN broadcast. The news reader, a dark-haired man with handsome features, was speaking with a marked air of smugness about Emperor Cartagia's death. John was favoring the screen with a scowl of disgust that barely lightened when I walked into the room. "I can't stand to watch these guys anymore," he said, turning toward me. "But 'know your enemy' is a battlefield maxim for a reason. Can I even believe a word they're saying?"

"In this case, yes. Though I have much better news than anything _that_ can tell you." Swiftly, I relayed everything Marcus had said. John's eyes lit up at word of G'Kar, and he caught hold of me in pure delight.

"That's wonderful! My God, I can hardly believe it. Though I might have known G'Kar would find a way to survive somehow." He shook his head—as if, like me, he felt bewildered at having something to celebrate for once with no apparent price attached. "So who takes over on Centauri Prime now? Cartagia didn't have any children, if I'm remembering right."

"There will be a regent, apparently. Someone to keep the Centauri throne warm until the great Houses can choose a successor from among their own ranks."

He raised an eyebrow. "_That_ ought to be fun."

"As you say." I laughed softly, then stopped as a word in the broadcast caught my ear. _Quarantine_. John heard it too. Alert and tense, his gaze shot back to the comm screen.

"…spokesman for President Clark said this about the quarantine order outlawing all travel from Earth and her colonies to Babylon Five: 'EarthGov regrets the necessity for such drastic action, but an Earth Alliance military station cannot be permitted to become a hotbed of anti-Earth terrorist activities. As the legitimate head of humanity's democratic government, President Clark has no choice but to act in the best interests of the Earth Alliance until all danger of alien subversion and terrorism is past."

"Off," John barked at the screen. The scowl was back, deeper than before. He paced away from me with a contemptuous snort. "'Legitimate.' He's as much Earth's legitimate president as I'm a Pak'ma'ra. The 'alien subversion and terrorism' part is a new wrinkle. We just saved everybody's butts from the Shadows and the Vorlons, and this is the thanks we get."

"What will you do?"

"Work around him. Like always. What else is there?" He sighed, a sound with the weight of a world in it. A tightness around his eyes showed he was worried. "I just wish I knew if my folks are okay. Mom and Dad on Earth, Lizzie and Mark and the boys out on Io. Clark could move against any of them, anytime." He looked back at me, anxiety clear in his face. "Frankly, I'm surprised he hasn't done it already."

I moved close enough to touch him. "You are still a hero of the Earth-Minbari War," I said softly. It pained me to speak of that, but he needed reassurance grounded in fact rather than hope. "Clark may be reluctant to harm those dear to you for fear of a backlash. Which could easily buy them time to go into hiding with the Resistance, if they haven't already."

"That's true." He was looking calmer now as the thought took hold. "We've been so busy fighting the war out here, I have no idea what's been happening on Earth lately. Except that things aren't good. But my folks could be perfectly safe, and we just don't know."

I leaned against him, and he slipped an arm around my shoulders. I said nothing more, not wishing to raise false hopes—but if anyone could get word of John's family, the Anla'shok could. With the Shadow War over, we could spare a few to find out. I resolved to speak with Marcus again the first chance I got.

**ooOoo**

A few days later, Garibaldi abruptly resigned his post. John seemed saddened by it, Susan indignant. "Wants to be a 'free agent,'" she said, with a shake of her head when she told me about it over coffee and _chirnoi_ on one of the few breaks she allowed herself. "Said that was the whole point of our fighting the damned Shadow war—so he could go his own way, grab a little happiness while the grabbing's good. Meanwhile, we've got a giant cluster-frag still to fix on Earth, with Clark and the Night Watch and the thoroughly mis-named Ministry of Effing Peace, and he's leaving us in the lurch on that." A scornful snort accompanied a sip of coffee. "What he thinks he's going to gain for himself, I don't know. These days it's like I don't know him at all."

I didn't know what was in his heart either, but her recounting of the scene in John's office crystalized something in my mind. I went to the main Security office, hoping to find Garibaldi still there. "Cleaning out his desk," as the human expression had it. Garibaldi was nowhere in evidence, and Mr. Allen—who was—could offer me little guidance on where to find him. "His quarters, that diner he likes, just _around_… I don't know where he is. He hasn't been telling me much lately." Mr. Allen looked frazzled, his hair uncombed and his normally friendly expression strained. The sight of me brought a touch of hope to his anxious eyes. "You gonna talk him out of this? Maybe he'll listen to you. He sure ain't listening to me. Or the captain, or much of anybody. 'Cause I have to tell you, I'm not up to filling Garibaldi's shoes. Nobody is. I'll do my best, but…" He ran a hand through his hair, disordering it still further. "And now I gotta go ask Lyta to babysit Bester, keep him from scanning everybody while he tells us some deep dark secret or other. _He_ says. Nothing like dealing with _that_ guy my first day on the Chief's job. If you could change Garibaldi's mind, make him come back, I'll owe you one hell of a favor."

Bester, here, with secrets. Not a reassuring combination. I promised Mr. Allen I would try my best and left. A visit to Garibaldi's quarters proved fruitless, with no response at his door. I thought a moment, then realized I knew the diner Mr. Allen had meant. It was in the better part of Brown Sector. Garibaldi had brought me there once for a supremely messy and delicious concoction known as a "Reuben", heavily brined meat and sharp melted cheese topped with a pickled vegetable whose name I could not recall, the whole warm mass of it wedged between slices of sour-tasting dark bread. It took two days' worth of cleaning my teeth to get the scent of it completely off my breath, but it was worth the experience.

He was there, scanning a copy of _Universe Today_, a bowl of soup and a cup of coffee in front of him. "No 'Reuben' today?" I said as I slid into the chair opposite him.

He did not laugh, or even smile at my little joke. His expression, when he looked up, bordered on hostile. A chill went through my heart. Garibaldi had never turned that look on me before.

"_He_ send you to talk to me?" Garibaldi said. "'Cause it won't work. I've made up my mind."

_He_. Not "John," or even "Sheridan" or "the Captain." Just an impersonal word, with an emphasis I did not like. "No," I said, with greater force than was perhaps wise. "I came on my own behalf. Because we are friends, and I am worried about you."

"Yeah, well don't be," he shot back. "I don't need a damned nursemaid. All right?"

Shock that he would speak to me so held me still. Regret crossed his face, and he stared down at his half-eaten meal. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. I'm just sick of it, is all. How're you doing, Garibaldi. Are you okay, Garibaldi. I still get it from everybody. And I'm fine."

"Then why are you resigning as head of Security?"

"Because it's time." He grabbed his coffee cup but didn't drink. "I helped fight the Shadows and the Vorlons, I was a good little soldier, now the war's done and I want out. I want to make my own choices, run my own life. Isn't that what we were fighting for—the right to make our own choices? So why can't I?"

"John mentioned you said something like that." Susan had as well.

His face closed. "So you did talk to him."

"We talk to each other frequently. We are allies and colleagues, as well as in love. But I am still myself, and I am not here at John's bidding. Not that it should matter if I were. He accepted your resignation. Reluctantly, but he did. Why would he ask _me_ to persuade you out of it, rather than speak with you himself? And why does it bother you to think he values you enough to wish you would reconsider?"

Instead of answering, he looked around for the server and raised a hand to signal her. The tension in him told me he wanted to pay for his lunch and leave, as close to immediately as possible. Something was clearly very wrong, and there was no point avoiding the blunt question any longer. I leaned toward him across the table. "What happened to you out there? When the Shadows came, and then you were gone?"

He shifted further away from me, agitated as a trapped animal. "I don't remember. I'm guessing there's a reason for that, and I don't want to go digging for it. I just want to be left alone. Can't you all just leave me alone?"

His voice rose and thinned on the last word. I had never seen him like this. The _nafak'cha_ came to mind then, Garibaldi in Medlab gazing down at me. _I'm afraid of what might happen if I ever lose control_. He looked perilously close to that now, and I could offer no help. Except to do as he asked, and hope it was for the best.

With deep regret, and a silent apology to Mr. Allen, I laid a hand on Garibaldi's wrist. His pulse felt rapid under my fingertips. "You must go where your heart leads," I said softly. "Only don't let it lead you too far away, for too long."

He stared at my hand on his sleeve. "I can't promise that."

The lost look on his face hurt to see. "I ask no promise. Only hope."

**ooOoo**

"I can't help feeling it's tied in somehow," John said later, when I joined him for dinner in his quarters and related my encounter with Garibaldi. "The way he's been ever since he came back from wherever the Shadows took him… his resigning was the capstone to something that's been building awhile." He pushed a few rice grains around on his plate. "Maybe it's just post-traumatic stress. I wish he'd let Stephen help him more, but he doesn't want it."

"You think there could be more to it?" That disquieting thought took away what was left of my appetite. "That the Shadows did something to him. As they did with…" I trailed off, suddenly absorbed by the play of light on the curve of my water glass. Even now, I found it difficult to say Anna's name.

A small silence followed. When I looked up, John was watching me. _Not your fault_, his eyes said, as clearly as if he'd spoken. "If they did or they didn't, I don't see it makes much difference with them gone. Whatever they might have intended him to do is moot now." He sighed and scooped up a forkful of rice. "I miss him, you know? The old Michael Garibaldi. Sometimes I'm not sure who this one is anymore."

"Neither is he, it seems." I sipped water, then set my glass down. "Could Lyta scan him, find out something about what happened? If she is willing—"

Well before I finished, he was shaking his head. "_He's_ not willing. Stephen suggested it not long after he was rescued, but he won't let her anywhere near him." His lips quirked in a half-smile. "As a telepath, I mean. He's not avoiding her personally. But he refused a scan, and we can't compel him. Not unless he's a clear and present danger to others, and he isn't."

"Only to himself, perhaps, if he does not get help."

"Yeah." Gloomily, he set down his fork. "There is that."

My mood matched his. "I should have gone to see him when he first came back to us. But I felt so lost, so… hopeless. And then, when I could see a path out of despair, there was the fleet to gather, the assault on Z'ha'dum to plan..."

"And then I made it back, and we've hardly had a moment to breathe since." He got up, moved around the table to where I was, held out a hand and drew me to my feet. "Until now," he said, and wrapped me in his arms.

I buried my face against his neck. He smelled spicy-sweet, like the oranges he favored. I drank in the scent of him, lifted my head and relinquished all thoughts of Garibaldi as my lips met John's in a kiss.

Some time later, he left off kissing me enough to speak again. "I have a favor to ask you," he murmured in my ear.

His breath tickled, which made me laugh. "Name it. Or was that perhaps the wrong thing to say?"

He stepped back just enough to look me in the eye, his face suddenly grave. "Bester came on board today," he said.

"I had heard." Indeed, I had spent much of the evening expecting John to broach the subject. "What has he offered this time—and at what price?"

"The lowdown on what Clark is planning next for us up here. Apparently the quarantine order and rumors of terrorism were just the first shot across our bow. Clark's planning to stage an incident near the jump gate in Sector 49, the main transfer point for travelers from Earth." Restless, he moved away from me and ran a hand through his hair. "He's got Earthforce patrols guarding the gate, enforcing the quarantine. Bester claims he's planning an attack on one, a false-flag operation with Babylon Five as the alleged perpetrators."

"To make the stories of terrorism look true." The thought turned my stomach. The deception alone was bad enough, but to sacrifice lives for it… "But we can forestall this with Bester's information?"

"If he's on the level. Which I think he is, given what he wants in exchange."

"Which is?"

He halted his restless motion and turned to face me. "He wants to go to Z'ha'dum. And he wants us to take him there."


	47. Chapter 47

**Author's Note: **This chapter includes some dialogue from the Season 4 episode, "Epiphanies". Usual disclaimer applies-not my characters, or my universe. Gapfillers and scene extensions are my own.

**Part 47—Devil's Bargains  
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The journey to Z'ha'dum was fraught on many levels, even more so than I expected. John had died there; Anna Sheridan had been reduced there to a shell without a soul; I had gone there seeking John, but found only heartbreak. And now we were approaching the Shadows' empty homeworld on an unlikely errand of mercy, hoping to aid an innocent victim of the Shadow War on behalf of a man none of us trusted or liked, or would have thought capable of loving anyone in his cold, shriveled heart—and yet he loved his Carolyn, enough to offer help in exchange to us, whom he otherwise counted as enemies.

Bester was a brooding presence throughout the journey. Outside his quarters he kept to himself, except for intermittent attempts to speak with John or Lyta. Neither of whom were much inclined to speak with _him_. Every conversation became a contest, a game of one-upmanship that Bester tried to win. He was not comfortable being dependent on us—two mundanes and a "blip", in his parlance—and me an alien enigma into the bargain. He preferred to ignore me as completely as he could, and I was satisfied to let him. The darkness of soul he carried was a near-tangible thing, and I preferred to keep my distance from it.

Still, I noticed a subtle change in him as we drew nearer our destination. A slight thinning of his armor, an occasional glimmer in his face of genuine feeling—fear, hope, sometimes both at once. He was looking for a miracle at Z'ha'dum, his own version of the one John and I had been granted. I knew what it was like to lose half of yourself, to believe such loss was permanent—and in spite of everything, I felt for him. Every glance I shared with John, every touch, every sight of my beloved walking down a corridor or onto the bridge, reminded me of how lucky I truly was. Lyta, and many others, might have said Bester did not deserve similar luck—but I had done harm far graver than his, fourteen years before, and who could say I deserved the grace I had been granted since to atone for it? Because of that, I could not find it in me to judge Bester any more harshly than Fate already had.

He made it his habit to linger by the forward viewports, staring out into hyperspace as if his gaze alone could pull us along faster than the ship's engines. The closer we got, the more time he spent there—saying little, often nothing, for minutes on end. One of these silent vigils in particular drew my attention, a few hours out from Z'ha'dum. He stood so still, weariness written in the set of his shoulders and the curve of his spine. His face, just visible in profile, looked bereft of hope. I needed no telepathy to know what he was thinking: _What if_. _What if_ there was nothing there that might free Carolyn… _what if_ there were a thousand things, none of any use because all were beyond our understanding. _What if_, two of the cruelest words in any language.

I could not see such anguish in anyone and do nothing about it. Not even in Alfred Bester. I finished speaking with the crew—all was well, they assured me—and left the bridge. Five minutes' swift walk brought me to the galley, where I procured a cup of _r'fani_ tea. I returned with it to the bridge and went over to where Bester was. He had not moved since my departure, seemed scarcely aware of my presence when I stepped up beside him.

I held out the cup. "I thought you might want this. _R'fani_ tea is known for easing troubled minds, human and Minbari alike."

He looked startled, then wary, as if I were offering some dangerous substance that might explode in his face. "I'm sorry?"

The thought crossed my mind that _those_ two words were not ones he was accustomed to uttering. I let it pass as unworthy. "I don't mean to intrude, and I will go if you prefer. But it might help you to have this. Sometimes a simple cup of tea is more welcome than one might think."

An odd expression crossed his face—a fleeting almost-warmth. He seemed unused to displaying such feeling, perhaps even embarrassed by it. "Thank you." He took the cup in his black-gloved hand, careful not to brush my fingers even slightly. He turned his gaze back to the viewport as he sipped. "I've never tasted this before. It's quite good."

"I have heard many humans say so." I let a little silence fall between us, to see if he would fill it. He kept staring out at hyperspace, watching the red-black swirls go by. The weight of _what if_ had scarcely eased, and despite the tea, even as I watched, it grew heavier.

"We will help her if we can," I said after a time.

His jaw tightened, as if in annoyance at being so easily read, yet this time the invisible weight on him lightened a bare fraction. He nodded in response, still gazing at the formless nothing outside the viewport. Our conversation, such as it was, was over.

I had done all I could, and stepped away. John had left the bridge some time before, after another verbal denn'bok match with Bester, and seeking him out seemed a far more pleasant prospect than continuing to share the bridge with the busy crew and Bester's silence. I went in search of John and found him in our shared crew quarters, apparently lost in thought. What must this journey be like for _him_, I wondered, not for the first time—for him, who had last approached Z'ha'dum with the Shadow-self of his lost wife, knowing what hard fate he went toward, believing he would never return?

Alerted by my footstep, he turned as I came in. His smile drew me, as always, and we came together in a swift embrace. "Thank you for coming along," he said, his arms loosely around me. "Spending five minutes with Bester would try the patience of a saint, but being stuck with him on a ship goes above and beyond the call of duty."

It was not a burden, I told him. "It will give us time together. That can never be a bad thing." Such joy it was, to be with him like this. Nothing to do, no war to fight or crisis to tamp down or diplomatic fire to put out. Just the two of us together in a little private space.

I judged it would last all of ten minutes. If we were lucky.

He was speaking of having a few days off "before the next crisis." Lamenting, as was his wont, that it never seemed to happen. It was such a familiar plaint, and so completely like John not to see his own nature in it. A nature I shared, if I were honest. I felt absurdly happy just hearing him, watching every emotion that crossed his dear face, holding him with my arms resting on his broad shoulders and my hands warm against his neck. "And you wouldn't have it any other way," I said when he paused for breath.

He gave a startled laugh. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're a problem solver. You're one of these people who will pick up a rope that's tangled and spend an entire day untangling it because it's a challenge, because it defies your sense of order in the universe, and because you can." He was looking bemused, half ready to deny everything, which made it even funnier. "Sometimes," I said, "I try to picture you sitting on a beach with absolutely nothing to do."

"And?" he broke in.

"And the picture always ends with your head imploding."

He pulled me closer. "You haven't known me this long to know me so well."

_Not in this lifetime alone, perhaps._ "We are old souls," I said lightly, though I meant every word. The perfect human expression to bring the point home came to mind, something I had picked up from Susan's old flatvids. "Deal with it."

He drew breath to speak, but I stopped his mouth with a kiss. Lingering and sweet, it fired every nerve cell and left both of us wanting nothing more than another kiss, and another. And another after that. I was losing myself in him, his taste and scent, the boundaries between us blurring, and _oh_, I wanted this, wanted it more than anything—

Something prickled across the back of my neck. Sharp, focused, threatening. Nothing physical, yet I felt it all the same. I shivered, broke off kissing John and held him tighter as I shot a glance over my shoulder. Nothing, no one, was there.

"Delenn?" John stroked my hair. "What is it, love? What's wrong?"

"I don't know." I couldn't put into words what I had felt. As if something had come upon us, invaded our private space. Something hostile, something… envious. But that was absurd. No one was here, no one on board this ship wished to harm us. Not even Bester. He needed us, and in his own strange way he had so far proven to have _some_ kind of honor. Still… "It was the strangest thing." I nestled closer to John, my heart rate slowing as the warmth of his body seeped into me. "I felt… watched. And by nothing that meant us well. Only for a moment. Then it was gone."

He looked grim as I spoke. "Bester," he said, echoing my passing thought. "If he's snooping around, trying some kind of scan or probe, I will by God—"

I put a hand to his lips. "Surely not. Lyta would sense it and block him." I did not see how it could be him, telepath or no. And if it was, the last thing we needed was a showdown on shipboard. The Shadows might be gone from Z'ha'dum, but they had allies who had not gone with them beyond the Rim. John knew little of them as yet beyond their bare existence—there had not been time to tell him, or anyone, much. Whether any of them were on Z'ha'dum, I didn't know. But if they were, we would need our wits about us and our alliance of convenience with Bester as strong as we could make it.

"That's true. She would." Lightly, he kissed the top of my head. "Maybe it's just being in this region of space again. I'm sorry, love. I shouldn't have asked you to come."

I tilted my head to look up at him. "Nonsense. I am not some fragile flower, unable to bear painful memories. And if I had stayed behind, we would not have this time together."

"On the beach," he said, with a glimmer of a smile. "With a tangled rope off to the side somewhere that I am on purpose _not_ looking at."

"Ah, but for how long?"

He bent his head toward mine. "Long enough…"

**ooOoo**

Pleasant an interlude as it was, we could not avoid responsibility indefinitely, and we both knew it. John left to return to the bridge, while I stayed to look up some records in the ship's databases that might prove vital once we reached Z'ha'dum. The Shadows were gone, but some of their allies were quite powerful, and dangerous. The Drakh came immediately to mind, with a shudder of revulsion. Long known for malice and cunning, able to control the minds of their victims with tentacled monstrosities known as Keepers that were grown on and detached from their own bodies, they were truly beings out of nightmare. Whether they, or any others, lurked on the Shadows' abandoned homeworld, I didn't know, but it made sense to prepare for whatever we might encounter.

Researching and compiling information took somewhat over an hour, and I returned to the bridge in hopes of finding everyone there: John, Lyta, and Bester. I preferred to speak of the Shadows' dark allies only once. How much to share with Bester required careful consideration, to which I put my mind as I traversed the corridors. He was an ally of the moment, more than capable of turning on us should he perceive advantage to himself in doing so. I harbored some hope that if we helped him save Carolyn, that debt might just be large enough to stay his hand against us at some future point. Yet the outcome of our journey was desperately uncertain, and I did not want to give him any knowledge that might come back to harm us if we failed.

I was mulling this over when I walked onto the bridge, and it took me a moment to realize something was wrong. The air crackled with tension, menacing as thunder on the mountain heights. Yet the crew went about their business as if nothing were out of the ordinary. John was not there, but this caused me no concern. He might be in the galley, or on the secondary bridge, or anywhere else on the ship that Bester wasn't—

_Bester._ He was standing near the forward viewport, this time facing the the far side of the bridge. Facing Lyta, whose back was to him. Watching her with a smirk on his face—the look of a hunter who has wounded his prey and takes pleasure in the knowledge of its pain.

Lyta stood with hands clenched, taut as an over-stretched harpstring. Her body radiated anger and fear. What had he said, or done, to her? I drew breath to demand just that, then thought better of it as Bester took a slow amble past the captain's chair, heading toward the doorway I had just come through. He drew level with me, and I recoiled on instinct from the smug satisfaction that tainted the air around him. As he stepped out into the corridor, he tipped a hand toward me in a jaunty farewell wave. Then he was gone, leaving behind a sense of something oily and slick and unfit for daylight.

I had never, until then, regretted an act of kindness toward anyone. Yet in that moment, I found myself regretting that cup of _r'fani_ tea I had offered him some little time before.

I was halfway to Lyta's side before conscious thought slowed my steps. Whatever had happened, unless it touched on the safety of our mission, it was for her to speak of it—or not, as _she_ wished. Lyta understood Minbari subtlety; she would recognize an opening if I gave her one, and take it if necessary.

I drew closer, and she turned—abruptly, as if startled by my approach. Then she relaxed a fraction. "Delenn."

Her attempt at a smile was not remotely convincing. "I wanted to ask how you are doing," I said. "It is… difficult returning to this area of space, at least for me." The last few words were half a question, a trailed thread of conversation for her to pick up if she chose.

"I'm all right." The slight turn of her head and the flicker of her gaze away from me gave the lie to that, but I let it go. Whatever Bester had said to her, it was personally distressing, nothing I had right or need to pry into. Had it touched on our mission, she would have said so. She glanced back at me, this time with genuine warmth. "I know what you mean, though. It is a little disturbing. I can't help remembering…" She trailed off, one hand rising to fidget with her hair.

Instinctively, I touched her arm. "We should not have asked you to do this. We should have found some way to satisfy Bester's demand without—"

"No, it's fine." Her fingers brushed mine, an instant's warmth. "The Captain gave his word. I understand he can't break it. I'll do what I have to, and then it'll be over."

Later, I would recall those words and marvel that I missed their significance. A lie by omission, small but critical—the first step down a path that would take Lyta away from us, in directions none of us dreamed.

**ooOoo**

As I had feared, the mission ended in failure—though perhaps that was best, considering the dangerous uses to which Bester could have put anything we found on the Shadows' dead homeworld. We dropped out of hyperspace in time to witness the last of an evacuation—faraway vessels, too distant to determine anything about them, arrowing away from Z'ha'dum and through the nearest jump gate. Had we known then who they were and where they were going, much suffering might have been averted. But we were ignorant, could only watch them go and realize what it meant in time to save ourselves from the searing shockwave when the planet exploded.

Bester was livid, but there was nothing he could do. I saw hope die in him seconds before Z'ha'dum did—saw it succumb to rage and pain and helplessness, all the more terrible in a man used to thinking of himself as master of his own destiny. He could not master this, and I almost found it in me to pity him.

And then I saw Lyta's face. The cold smile in her eyes, a smug satisfaction so much akin to the look Bester had worn scant hours ago that the similarity chilled me to the bone.

**ooOoo**

I told myself later that I could not have seen what I thought I had. Home again aboard Babylon Five, with Clark's latest machinations come to naught thanks to Bester's information and quick action by Susan Ivanova, and the man himself safely gone, it seemed incredible that Lyta could have had anything to do with the destruction of Z'ha'dum. And if she did take satisfaction in Bester's loss, who was I to judge her for it? He had long since proven himself her foe, would not have scrupled at doing her harm if it suited some scheme of his. Yet I could not help thinking of Carolyn, and those like her. Stephen Franklin and his dedicated staff might yet manage to release them from their prison, but the chance of doing so had grown immeasurably slimmer. Stephen knew it, I knew it, John knew it, Bester certainly knew it. And Lyta? She must have known it. Indeed, that was the strongest argument against the idea that she had engineered anything at Z'ha'dum. I could imagine her wishing to harm Bester, but not hurting innocents as collateral damage. The sneaking, cold unease I had felt on the bridge of the White Star as we raced away from the dead planet's final destruction must have been illusory. I could not believe anything else.

Yet the unsettling notion would not leave my mind. Lyta had been to Z'ha'dum before, had reached clear to the planet's surface with the power of her gift. She _could_ have done something, sensed some presence and sent warning in the seconds after we left hyperspace. Whoever was down there would have taken care of the rest. _I should tell John_, I thought, and my heart misgave me. What, after all, had I really seen? Animosity in Lyta's face toward a man who richly deserved it. Anything else was pure conjecture. Slander, if I spoke it, of one I counted a friend.

I couldn't tell John. Lyta deserved better of me. But if I was right… _if_ I was right…

By the time John joined me for a late dinner in my quarters, I had resolved one thing. Twice now, Bester had come to us and offered vital information in exchange for our help. Even coldly furious as he was when he left, it seemed possible he might be back again. John should at least know the extent of the bad blood between Bester and Lyta, if he didn't already, so as to judge whether or not to keep her out of things should Bester return with another devil's bargain to propose.

"I was thinking about Lyta," I said, while John warmed the flatbread he had brought from the Minbari bakery I liked and I set out shallow bowls. We were dining tonight on _courlas_, a hearty stew of roasted root vegetables and dried meat braised to tender shreds. John had grown quite fond of it, even asked me once if it was easier to make than flarn. "I don't know how much you observed her on the trip to Z'ha'dum, but—"

He reached up to take the flatbread out of the warmer. "I took care of it," he said, sounding unexpectedly brusque. "It's done with."

" 'Done with…'?" I trailed off, my momentary confusion clearing as I realized what he had to be referring to. He had seen what I saw in those moments on the bridge, reached the same disturbing conclusion I had. Only he was surer than I was.

Sure enough to "take care of it." Without talking to me.

I chose my response with care, keeping a flare of temper under control. "What exactly did you do? If I may ask?"

He looked startled, then annoyed. "Come off it. If you're angry at me, say so."

"I am. Yes. Whatever you said to Lyta, you should have spoken with me first."

He set the flatbread down, leaned against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. "My command, my decision. And like I said, it's done with."

"_It_ may be done with. _We_ are not." He had done it again—made a decision that concerned us both without consulting me, because he wished to spare me the difficulty. I could not, _would_ not permit this. "Why did you not tell me you suspected Lyta of aiding the destruction of Z'ha'dum? Why did you not share your concerns? Because Lyta is my friend, and you did not wish me to have to deal with this? Do you think me that fragile, that you must spare me hard decisions?"

"I'm _not_—"

"Yes, you are!" I took a step toward him, angry enough at his denial to have reached out and shaken him. "You have done it before. I asked you to stop. I thought you understood, I do not _wish_ to be spared. But you—"

He pushed himself off the counter and paced away a couple of steps. "All right. Fine. I did spare you. Just this one thing. Why is that wrong?"

"Because I say it is! We are in this together, John. We share the burdens or we don't. If this is not so, if you decide for me which will be shared and which will not, then—"

His eyes blazed. "I'm hardly the first to do that. You made a pretty damned big decision for _me_ awhile back, if you recall!"

Stung and in pain, I retaliated. "So that is why you spare me now—because of what you cannot spare me in twenty years."

He stared at me, white-faced. Then, with a quiet anguish that tore at my heart: "I would if I could. God knows I would."

Grief rose up to choke me. The next moment I was holding him, pressed close, my face hidden against his neck. "I'm sorry," I managed to whisper. "I'm sorry, John. Tell me you did not hear that. Forgive me."

His arms tightened around me. I felt his heartbeat strong and steady under my cheek. "Hear what?" he said softly.

His gentleness undid me. I gulped back a sob. His lips brushed my hair, the soft skin at my temple. "It's all right to cry," he murmured. "You don't have to be so damned brave all the time."

"But I do." It was a struggle to get the words out, but he had to understand. "If I am not brave, I cannot love you as I wish. I will lose all the days we have left in grudging their passing."

And then, for a long while, there were no more words between us. Yet our hearts spoke to each other all the same.


	48. Chapter 48

**Author's Note: **This chapter takes place between "Epiphanies" and "The Illusion of Truth", not long before the episode "Atonement". As the opening scene of that episode makes clear, Delenn at some point notified her clan of her intent to marry John… and, given the Minbari love of rituals, it seemed only logical there would be a ritual for that sort of thing, rather than just a bare message sent home. This is how I think it might have gone.

**Part 49—Heart's Home**

Travel to Minbar, a few days later, was easy enough to arrange. I felt impatient to be off, and more than a little anxious. That I had bent tradition as far as I had was only one of the potential difficulties we faced. My choice of John was without precedent in the history of my people—a reality I had glossed over in my prior thoughts of the _shan'diya_ ritual to come. No Minbari had ever taken an off-worlder as a life-mate, ever asked that someone not Minbari be accepted as kin. The ties of blood—family, clan and caste—are a sacred web to us, each strand woven of honor and obligation, shared history and love. To bring John into that web—son of a different people, born under a different sun, with different understandings of what honor, obligation, history, meant—would my clan think me mad or a fool, that my heart would tell me to do such an outlandish thing in the expectation they would simply go along?

Then again, this was hardly the most "outlandish" thing I had done. Or that my clan had accepted, with the fierce loyalty for which the Miri were known. Even in the first months after my transformation, no longer _satai_ and with many Minbari only too willing to shun me, my clan had not wavered in their support, even if it came grudgingly. Like Lennier, they had refused to accept my disgrace. Whatever their private judgments about the wisdom of my actions, they would not see me—and through me, themselves—publicly shamed. Over time, with Valen's prophecies fulfilled and unity between Minbari and humans a visible reality in the revived Anla'shok, they had begun to learn the true worth of humans and no longer paid much heed to my own half-human state. In their eyes I was Delenn, still a daughter of Mir. Surely, then, it was not so great a step to accept a full human as kin, especially such a one as John had proved himself to be.

_They will accept him_, I told myself as I bade Lennier a temporary farewell in the docking bay and walked toward my personal flyer. I carried little with me for this brief journey: a small bag with a few spare garments, a datareader, a slim volume of poems by Korenn. And two other objects of greater significance: a braided candle in three colors and a wooden box no larger than my hand. Delicately carved with leaves and vines, the box held three daffodil bulbs: John's ceremonial gift to the Elder of Mir.

"I checked with our resident xenobiologists," he had said when he gave me the box in his quarters the evening before. "They'll grow all right in the local climate around Tuzanor. They spread, too, so there'll be more of them every spring. I thought three bulbs to start with, given the Minbari thing with threes…"

He trailed off, looking half eager and half apprehensive. I had explained our custom of the ceremonial gift, given to the elder of the woman's clan by the man wishing to join with her. _The gift should honor her clan_, I had said, _and should also have some meaning for the giver. Often, both elements intertwine, deepening the meaning of each_. Clearly, he had spent considerable time thinking about what to give. Something small and easily transportable, personally meaningful, and capable of impressing—or at least not offending—a man he had never met, but whom he had reason to believe was not best disposed toward humans. Propriety prevented me from telling John outright of Elder Callenn's prejudice—I could not, as humans put it, "air the dirty laundry"—but I had felt I should at least hint at it, in fairness to my beloved.

I opened the box. The tips of three brown, vaguely triangular bulbs poked up through a small mound of rich, black dirt. "They're early bloomers," he said. "One of the first to come up in the spring. Symbols of renewal, of hope… and of honesty and clarity." He hesitated. "They also symbolize forgiveness. I thought that might be a message that goes both ways."

Forgiveness, renewal, honesty. The lattermost very like John himself, the other two reinforcing each other. All three meanings with particular relevance to recent history between John's people and my own. I closed the box, set it down, and sat next to him on the sofa. "And what do they mean to you?"

He slipped an arm around me. "A new lease on life. A reminder that nothing is ever hopeless, that there can always be a new beginning. That's what you are for me, you know." One hand idly stroked my hair. "Before I met you, I thought I'd never love again. I thought my heart was dead as… as winter ground. I forgot winter ground isn't dead. Just dormant, waiting for the spring sunlight to revive it."

I hid my face against his neck. "You are going to make me cry."

"And then I'll have to console you," he murmured in my ear.

My response was not in words, and left us both unable to speak again for quite some time.

Now, after boarding the flyer, I set down my carryall and took out the little wooden box. To check on the daffodils, I told myself, make certain they had taken no harm from jostling as I carried them all the way here. In truth, I simply wanted to look at them. To remember what they meant to John and lock that same meaning deep in my own heart.

**ooOoo**

Mayan had made ready for me in the house that was hers alone now, moving a second bed into what had been our shared sleeping-room when we were little. Chazen, the old threadbare stuffed gokk, sat on a low table between the beds. "She couldn't decide where to go," Mayan said, a sparkle in her eye. "The poor thing got so used to being shared, I could not persuade her to occupy your pillow, and she simply wouldn't stay on mine."

"Oh, Mayan!" Breathless, happy, wistful and nervous, I clasped her hands and pressed my forehead to hers. "I am mad, aren't I? Bringing together such different pieces of my life, trying to make them one… but I love him so, my heart cannot be whole any longer without him…"

"Tell me," she said, and drew us down to sit at the foot of her bed.

There was so much to tell, I hardly knew where to begin. Things tumbled out, disjointed, and yet making an odd kind of sense. The way the very air brightened when he smiled, the way light struck fire from his red-gold hair. The fire that burned in me when our hands so much as brushed. How brave he was, how kind, how loving. How it felt to kiss him, hold him, simply _be_ with him, hearing with my heart the harmony of our souls. All the joy of loving John, I poured out to her like an offering, understanding fully for the first time what she had felt for Branmer on that night she first went out walking with him so many cycles ago.

I said nothing of the dark thread of loss twined around my joy. I could not bring myself to voice it, and the hard truth of _twenty years_ was not mine to tell in any case. Here, now, with the _shan'diya_ awaiting me, I wanted only to think of the many moments I had treasured with John, and the many more to come. When at last I ran out of words, we sat in a little space of silence. I was only half there with Mayan in the house of my childhood; the rest of me was on Babylon Five with John, caught in a daydream of the last kiss we had shared before I came away.

"You are truly _shanmai_, then," Mayan said softly at length. "I can see it in your eyes."

Her own eyes held a shadow—faint, easy enough to miss beneath the warm affection in them, but I had known her nearly all my life, and she could hide nothing from me. "You think it wrong," I murmured, suddenly dry-mouthed. "You think _us_ wrong… John and I, joining together…" I couldn't go on. That Mayan, of all people, could harbor doubts…

Her gaze sharpened. "I do _not_," she said. "There is no wrong where love is concerned. The heart does what the heart does. And you would not give your heart to one not worthy of it. If you love him, then so shall I." Her lips quirked in a half-smile. "As a sister, of course."

"But you have concerns. They are in your face, Mayan. Don't try to pretend them away, even to spare me worry."

She sighed. "I have concerns, yes. I wish I could say otherwise. But since the end of the war, when the Shadows and the Vorlons departed…" She stirred, restless, then stood and began to pace. "You have been long away, Delenn. And when you are here, you spend your time among the Anla'shok. They have learned to accept everyone: humans, Narns, Brakiri, Hyach, Pak'mara… even the few Centauri who join their ranks. I don't think you know what it is truly like outside the Ranger compounds and Tuzanor."

I felt cold, though the room was perfectly warm. "I know the warrior caste is restive—I expected that—but surely, our victory over the Shadows and the Vorlons—"

"For many Minbari, that is enough," she said gently. "They see what you have become in a different light than they once did, and they are willing to begin accepting humans as kindred of the soul. Even if it is difficult, they will try. But there are those who still refuse. They lost too much in the Earth-Minbari war, they have spent too long believing humans are murderous barbarians, they still do not regard all the human lives we took as sufficient payment for Dukhat. And the warrior clans have lost great face. First when we surrendered at the Battle of the Line; then when you changed, yet did not break after they cast you out of the Grey Council. Then again when you built a warship fleet in spite of them, and became Entil'zha, and shattered the Council and rallied the other castes to your side to fight the war _they_ wouldn't. And then you—_we_—won that war. A 'ragtag rabble of stargazers and mystics, tinkerers and laborers,' prevailed over not one, but two foes so powerful the mightiest warriors would have fallen before them. _Our_ mightiest warriors backed down from that challenge. It was theirs to take up, but they lacked the courage. They have not forgiven you for making them see that. And their numbers among our people are not inconsiderable."

I rose to my feet. "So the warriors are angry with me. That is hardly a surprise. What does this have to do with John, and with our clan accepting my choice to join with him?"

"The warrior caste is powerful," she said. "Our caste and clan remain forces to be reckoned with, but we took losses in the recent war. They did not. The family Khourt of the Wind Swords has been especially loud in its complaints—that the religious caste has usurped the warriors' role, that the Miri are setting themselves above other Minbari by making one of our own Entil'zha and permitting you to break the Grey Council. And they—"

"Per_mit_—" Shocked, I couldn't even finish the word. "There was no _permitting_ about it! I broke the Grey Council because the Council first broke our covenant with Valen! They turned away from the task they were honor-bound to fulfill! Billions would have died in consequence, had their decision stood. And the family Khourt is blaming _us_? Have they gone mad?"

"They have ever been our rivals," she said quietly. "Since well before Valen's time. You know our clan's history as well as I do."

"I still don't understand what this has to do with John," I said, stubbornly, though in truth I was beginning to. And I did not like it.

"There are those among our kin," Mayan said slowly, "who have taken to heart the Wind Swords' accusations. Who will not want the Miri set apart any further, especially by another act of yours. You are drawing fire, Delenn, because you stepped up when those who should have would not. And when you draw fire, all of us do. Taking a human as a life-mate, asking us to accept him—and not _any_ human, but the one we called Starkiller not so very long ago—for some, that may be one bold action too many."

"You mean Callenn." She was talking around it, in the typical Minbari way, but it was principally he to whom she referred. He was clan Elder; he had authority, and might well sway others' opinions based on his rank alone. He had never understood or approved of me, except early on in the Earth-Minbari War when he believed me as bloodthirsty against humans as he was. The irony of my situation struck me with a pang, and for a moment I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Elder Callenn was the one I had come home to see. To arrange a formal meeting with, where I would name my beloved and present John's honor-gift, as part of the _shan'diya_ rituals. If Callenn spurned the gift… if he refused to acknowledge it and bless the bond of our hearts…

Shaken at the thought, I groped for something to hold. My hands found Mayan's; she held me with our foreheads touching until my breathing calmed. "I'm sorry," she said. "You were so happy… I shouldn't have spoken of all this."

"No. You were right to." Her closeness eased my heart, though I was still afraid. So much could go wrong from the next sun-up to sundown… "This way I am prepared, at least."

"One thing I hope you know," she said, giving my hands a gentle squeeze. "Whatever Callenn, or anyone, may think or say, I will stand with you. And with your John Sheridan. Always."

**ooOoo**

Mayan had given me much to think on, and the calm of meditation before sleep came hard that night. For a time I lay in the near-darkness, my gaze on the faint starshine from the window, while my fingers traced the pattern on the little box that held John's bride-gift. The weight of it in my palm was a reassurance—a reminder of John, of love, of everything he was to me. The starlight gleaming on the carved wood recalled to mind one of our earliest conversations in the Zen garden on Babylon Five. _We are star-stuff_, I had told him. _We are the Universe made manifest, trying to figure itself out_. A smile curved my lips at the memory: the greenery around us, the gentle rushing of the waterfall, the wonderstruck look on John's face. Had our love begun even then, our hearts and souls instinctively knowing what our minds had yet to grasp?

" '_Ne'esh v'mai, selora tesai_,' " I murmured, my voice a counterpoint to Mayan's soft breathing and the whisper of the night wind. _So speaks my heart, that we are one_. A line from a poem so ancient, its origins were lost to memory. As far back as there was written record, and even before that, it had been part of the Minbari rite of Joining. I imagined saying those words to John, hearing them in turn from his own lips, and a sense of yearning engulfed me like a wave.

I brought the box to my nose, breathed in the scent of the wood, then set it on the low table by the bed. My hand brushed Chazen's soft bulk. Feeling foolish, I grabbed hold of the threadbare stuffed gokk and tucked her beneath my chin. If I could not have John to hold, Chazen would do.

The familiar feel of the childhood toy steadied me, and at last I drifted into slumber.

**ooOoo**

Mayan was still asleep when I rose before dawn, drew on my over-robe and shoes, and went out into the early morning. The pearl-grey sky slowly lightened as I walked up the path toward the towering peak known as Grandmother Mountain. I sought a particular spot, where a little rill tumbled over a rock-shouldered slope and then flowed downward to join a creek that gradually widened into a river as it crossed our clan lands on its way to the majestic waterfall that powered Tuzanor. I had loved this spot ever since stumbling across it on my first sojourn up the mountain, as a little girl of just five cycles, intent on finding the magic bird that would grant my dearest wish. Even though that wish had not come to pass, it seemed a fitting place to perform the solitary first ritual of _shan'diya_ that would bind John and me for this lifetime—and beyond.

The colors of imminent sunrise, pale rose with a wash of gold, covered half the sky by the time I reached my destination. I walked to the top of the rise, the rill murmuring beside me as it danced between banks of heathery green bracken and rust-red _hala_, leaping from rock to wet gray rock on its way down the hillside. A breeze kicked up, an ambassador of dawn.

The conceit pleased me, and I felt myself smiling as I faced the brightening horizon. The breeze strengthened, scented with damp earth and new growth. As a thin line of gold too bright to look on edged the place where land met sky, I drew the sweet wind deep into my lungs and whispered John's name three times. The wind would carry the sound of it to every corner of the slowly waking clan lands, making John known to the place he could forever after claim as home.

_Forever after_ lingered in my mind and heart as I turned back the way I had come.

**ooOoo**

Up and dressed when I arrived, Mayan said not a word as I came in the back door, only grinned at my shining face and poured tea for us both. We were merry as we breakfasted and then set off for the main compound, a long but pleasant walk across rolling foothills and tree-dotted slopes. It was middle spring, near the end of the Greening Moon, a propitious time for weddings and thoughts of such. We fell silent eventually, breathless with climbing, and Mayan drew a little ahead of me. She reached the crest of a hill and briefly halted, her gaze on a higher rise off to our left. A marker stone for a loved one gone, silver-gray shot through with a vein of crystal, stood partway up it.

I drew level with her, thinking to say something, but the words caught in my throat.

She turned to me. "I have no regrets," she murmured with a wistful smile.

"Save one."

"Even so." She looked at the stone again, across the green expanse mottled with red and touches of gold where a few _hala_ bushes had begun to bud. "I miss him still; that never changes. But I would not wish never to have loved him." There was light in her eyes now, and a faint flush on her cheeks, and a richness in her voice that I had heard in my own just last night when I talked of John. "It was a gift, that Branmer and I loved each other. I will always be grateful for that, and for his memory to cherish."

I slipped an arm around her waist, my gaze following hers to the marker stone. We stood there for a few moments more, and I thought: _Where you are now, one day I will be._ The thought left me cold, even in the warm morning breeze. I could only hope to have her strength when the time came that I must bid John good-night.

At length we continued on our journey, the weight of past and future loss slowly giving way to ordinary conversation and light-hearted banter again. By the time we reached the Great Hall where the household temple was, I was more than half-convinced Mayan's worries about John were overblown. There might be some minor reluctance from a few to count him as kindred, but John was no ordinary human—and, deeply involved in the revival of the Anla'shok as the Miri were, my clan should have learned enough of humans' true worth by now to make my unorthodox choice of mate easier to swallow.

I had been long away from home, yet the temple was as familiar as in my childhood. I thought of my father, carrying me here on his shoulders from our little house, and for a moment my sight blurred. If he could see me now, know all that had befallen me since last we met… I shut my eyes to keep tears back, then opened them to Mayan's gentle touch over my heart.

"He is with you still," she said. "Even from the place where no shadows fall."

I clasped her hand, and we crossed the threshold of the temple together.

The anteroom was dim and cool, kept so by the silken curtains drawn between it and the main chamber. I set down the small satchel I carried, with the braided candle and John's bride-gift inside, and took the candle out. Mayan and I moved forward to the small cleansing pool by the entrance, removed our dusty shoes and stockings, and stepped into the water. Constantly flowing, fed by the hot springs beneath the Hall, it eddied around my bare toes with the gentle warmth of a lover's caress. After a few moments I stepped out on the far side, onto the drying mat. Mayan joined me; we put on soft leather slippers provided and passed through the curtains into the temple proper.

Sunlit rainbows dazzled our eyes, dancing across the facets of the vast single crystal from which the chamber had been carved. The Mir household temple was one of nine such on Minbar, prized as a marvel of ancient architecture as well as a holy place. Few people were here at this time of day—an acolyte tending the banks of memory-candles against the northern wall, two old women kneeling in a cushioned well and meditating together. Shafts of colored light made jewel-bright shapes on their robes and faces, and on the polished floor: red and blue, green and gold. The beauty of it caught my breath as Mayan and I moved toward the chamber's apex, where fire burned in a beaten-copper bowl atop an altar of bluish stone.

We stopped six paces shy of the altar and bowed toward the fire. The acolyte glanced up, noticed us and came over. Young and slight, she looked familiar, and her green eyes widened as she drew closer. "Entil'zha Delenn!" Her bow showed deep respect. "You honor us with your presence. How may I serve you?"

The cadence of her voice told me who she was. "Roshenn, isn't it?" A cousin, some years younger than I, but always the lightest-hearted save Mayan that I recalled at any clan gathering. "You were hardly more than a midling the last time we saw each other."

She smiled shyly. "You remember me. I am doubly honored." A moment's hesitation, and then she went on: "I am glad to see you home again. How may I serve?"

I held up the unlit candle. Her eyes widened further at the sight of it as I spoke the ritual words: "I ask the second rite of _shan'diya_." Music in my ears, those words, alluring in their newness on my lips.

Roshenn bowed again. "Long life and many blessings to you and your beloved, and to all your kindred." She held out her hands, and I laid the candle across them. She stepped to the altar, lit the candle from the sacred fire, then carried it back and carefully handed it to me. "As you love truly, may you see truly."

"May it be so." Mayan and I replied together. I felt Roshenn watching us as we moved toward the private alcove reserved for _shan'diya_ rites, and I knew the story would be everywhere among the clan by sundown. Which brought with it an uneasy blend of excitement and anxiety—everyone I met would be happy for me, but for how long once they knew who my intended was? _Stop it_, I scolded myself as I set the candle in its holder on a ledge and Mayan prepared the alcove for the rest of the ritual. _They will accept him. The Universe knows what it's doing_.

My gaze on the flickering candle flame, I knelt on the cushion Mayan had set down and took a deep, settling breath. Behind me, Mayan began to chant. An ancient tune by Korenn, the melody alone a meditation on love and lovers—joyful, wistful, tugging at the heart. All love's gladness and sorrows were in the music: the risk of loss, the fierce ecstasy of soul and body that makes the heart dance. I listened, and watched the flame, and let Mayan's sweet wordless voice carry me away where not even she could follow. Only I could linger here… and John, present in my thoughts as vividly as if he stood before me.

Images flashed across my mind, took me deeper into my own soul. The first time John saw me on Babylon Five, in the Council room, his face a study in delighted surprise. That same look beside a table at the Fresh Aire restaurant as he watched me walk toward him the evening of our first "date." Gazing at me with his heart in his eyes, the two of us pressed close on the bridge of the White Star, our lips meeting in that first precious kiss… My skin remembered him, my mouth, my arms—his warmth, the high curve of his back and shoulders, the feather-light silk of his hair where it met the nape of his neck. Slow heat began to build deep within me, spreading outward until it flooded my senses. He was everything I wanted, everything, and he was mine, and I was his, from the moment we saw each other until… until…

Longing gave way to anguish. In my vision I held him still, but he was different. Older. Too much older. My voice and his echoed in my ears, overlapping, broken with grief, speaking the ritual words of the only good-bye Minbari ever say. _Goodnight my sun, my moon, the brightest star in my sky… _And in my mind were other words: _Don't go, you _can't _go, don't leave me alone…_

Shift, and shift again. A different warmth in my arms, small and softly rounded, a weight fitting perfectly in the crook of my elbow. Somewhere in the distance my body responded, my arms curving into a cradle shape. Sight followed sensation, and in my mind's eye an infant slowly came clear. Less than a cycle old, soft-cheeked in slumber, a stubby ridge of bone crest peeking out from a cap of red-gold hair.

My sorrow gave way to wonder. Bone-deep, I knew I gazed at the face of my son. _Our_ son. I would lose my beloved before his time, I had to accept that. But if I could have this, our child, a piece of John left behind to love after he was gone…

The infant faded, from my sight and from my arms, as I surfaced from my waking dream. Save for me, the alcove was empty, the candle a fading wisp of smoke amid a pool of melted wax. I shook my head, clearing away the last remnant of trance, still coming to grips with what I had seen. We had not talked of children, John and I—it seemed absurd to do so when we hadn't been certain of surviving long enough to marry in the first place. Was it even possible? I didn't know. I had never considered that aspect of my part-human state. A sudden heart-hunger made me clench my fists in my lap. If it _was_ possible… I wanted that child. I would dare anything, risk anything, to give him birth.

I willed my clenched hands to ease until my palms lay flat against the silk of my robe. It was time to end the second ritual and begin the third. The one I felt least sure of—yet my visions bolstered my confidence even as they left me shaken with equal parts grief and hope.

A small compartment in the wall, beneath the spot where the candle had stood, yielded what I needed to complete the ritual. I took out a small container of tempered glass half the size of my palm and passed it through the melted wax. The container caught a fingertip's depth, which I would keep until it cooled. This remnant of the _shan'diya_ candle would be melted down again at the proper time, first becoming part of the _shan'fal _candles, and then of the larger braided one used in the Joining Ceremony. A symbol linking all three aspects of the journey John and I were undertaking—the joining of our hearts, our bodies, and our souls.

The full reality of what I had just done—what it _meant_—flooded my whole being with happiness. No matter what sorrow awaited, we would have each other, love, a life to build. _And a child_?

Carefully, as if it were a precious jewel, I stowed that last thought away and left the alcove. Whatever was meant, would be. We need only wait for it to happen.

**ooOoo**

"You're sure you are ready for this?" Mayan touched my sleeve, a gentle holding-back gesture as I set my foot on the first of the three steps leading to the door of the Gathering chamber at the western end of the Great Hall. She had seen my flushed face and over-bright eyes after I rejoined her in the main temple, and correctly read their cause as being more than a joyful bride's anticipation of her joining-day.

"I haven't much choice. I asked for the third _shan'diya_ ritual; it will only be trouble if I back out now."

"It may be trouble anyway," she murmured, biting her lip. Prohibitions against anything like gossip are strong among Minbari; she was not comfortable with what she felt compelled to say next. "If Elder Callenn senses any… distress, he may use it against you. Call it lack of faith, or—"

"Never that." I spoke with conviction. "I have no doubts about what my heart wants. Nor John's, either."

She gave me a long look, then gently smoothed a wisp of hair behind my ear, with a glimmer of wonder in her eyes at the strangeness of the gesture. "I wish you would tell me," she said quietly. "I know there is something."

"It is not mine to tell. Yet." I captured her hand and briefly pressed it to my heart. "When it is… _if_ it is… then…"

She nodded, then gave me what humans call 'the once-over.' "You will do. Let us go and face Elder Callenn."

My uncle, as expected, was waiting for us in the middle of the large, open space where clan gatherings were held: Naming ceremonies, disputes to be settled, any occasion of note that required the assembly of the clan council, those who led the many septs of Mir. Our footsteps echoed as Mayan and I crossed the gleaming, polished floor, and in my ears the sound resonated back through time. Centuries ago, before Valen, when the clans of Minbar still warred with each other, this room had seen the council gather every time a marriage was proposed between a son or daughter of Mir and someone from a rival clan—or a clan with whom an alliance promised both advantage and hazard, so that all outcomes might be weighed before irrevocable steps were taken. Why was I thinking of that now? But the answer was obvious, and heat rose in my cheeks. My situation bore parallels to so many from our history, and yet was unparalleled in our history. What Elder Callenn would make of it, I would discover in the next few minutes. Beyond that, I did not yet dare think.

We exchanged bows of greeting, Callenn's perfectly proper, though his look was wary. "In Valen's name, welcome," he said, with his usual pomposity. Then, to Mayan: "You stand with Delenn as her closest kin?"

She nodded. "I do."

"And this union meets with your approval?"

Bless Mayan, she answered with not a heartbeat's hesitation. "Completely."

Elder Callenn bowed again, with the hand gesture that signified acceptance. Then he turned to me. My mouth felt suddenly dry, my hands slippery with sweat around the small wooden box John had given me. "Of what name and clan is your intended? What is their heritage?"

It took all I had not to betray my apprehension with even the smallest gesture—a swallow, a moistening of my lips, a half-second's hesitant breath. My voice rang clear and strong through the chamber. "John Joseph, of the Sheridan clan of Earth. A clan of many strengths, of proud warriors but also of bards and diplomats and other makers of peace."

Silence fell. Callenn stood frozen, his face blank with shock. Well, I had half-expected that. Rumors had surely reached him of how closely I was working with John throughout the past two years, as the Shadows and then the Vorlons launched their war against the younger races—but precisely what those rumors had said, or what stock he placed in them, I had no way of knowing. I waited as he simply stood there. He made no bow or gesture, said no word. It was his to speak next, according to the ritual. Yet he stayed silent. I kept my own face impassive with titanic effort. Mayan's words came back to me—"If he senses any distress, he may use it against you." Why did he not speak? Was he refusing to accept what I had said? Refusing to acknowledge whose name I had spoken as the man I loved, thereby leaving the ritual incomplete—with all that implied for the acceptance of my union with John by the entire Mir clan?

My heart thudded against my ribs, so hard it seemed Callenn must hear it. Then he cleared his throat, and I braced myself. Next to me, Mayan had gone still as ice.

"What… gift does he send, to honor the clan he would join?" Thin and thready, as if grasping for the words, the Elder's voice seemed dwarfed by the cavernous space around us. But he had spoken the proper ritual question. The _shan'diya_ could continue_._

A sudden rush of sensation made me dizzy. I managed not to sway where I stood, and could only hope my face did not betray what I belatedly recognized as overwhelming relief. We were not through yet. I held out the carved wooden box. "John Sheridan sends this to the Elder of Mir, as a token of respect for the Mir clan, and asks acceptance with an open heart."

Callenn regarded the box as if it were a wild beast that might bite, or a weapon that might go off in his face. He made no move to take it. Seconds crept by, while my relief gave way to rising anxiety. He would take the gift, surely. He _must _take it. He had gone too far with the ritual not to… With a hand that trembled slightly, I opened the box and raised it higher in his view. "Flower bulbs," I said, aware that I was departing from the script—but John's gift was not native to Minbar, and so required some explanation. "Daffodils, they are called. A golden flower, like the sunlight that gives life. On John's homeworld, daffodils are a time-honored symbol of spring, of renewal and rebirth. Also of honesty, a trait our clan values above all others."

Callenn's face could have been carved from stone. I racked my brain for more, for anything that would prompt a response. _Forgiveness _went through my mind as I recalled what John had said the evening before my departure—but would Callenn interpret that as "Starkiller presuming" to forgive us for the terrible error of the Earth-Minbari War? The moment was too delicate; I couldn't risk it. There must be something else… "Though they are native to Earth, they will grow well in Minbari soil. There are many similarities between our homeworld and John's, it seems."

His lips thinned, subtly but definitely. I had made my point—that Minbari and human were akin—and he did not care for it. Had even that been a step too far? Another long moment passed in taut silence. Then he bowed his head, a bare tilt as if compelled against his will, and took the box from me. "We are honored to accept," he said faintly. "So speaks the Elder. So speaks the clan."

A faint rush of sound swept past my ears, like a whisper of wings, as I let out the breath I had not been conscious of holding. It was over. Our joining was accepted. John would be welcomed as kin. Callenn had said it as Elder. He could not go back on his word without great loss of honor… and that, I was certain he would not risk.

My bow to him was as profound as the joy that blazed through me. As Mayan and I turned and left the chamber, she caught my eye, wonder in her face. "The things you get away with," she breathed admiringly as we headed down the hallway toward the outer door and the brilliant afternoon sunlight.

It was not to be so simple, as things turned out. But at that moment, I was content to take my happiness where I found it.


End file.
